


Everything is Alright

by ryuutora



Series: The Future Freaks Me Out [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Keith is purple now, Keith is reckless and Lance is stressed, Keith's Foster Homes, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, There is a LOT of the past in this and it is Not Fun for Keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuutora/pseuds/ryuutora
Summary: ‘I’m sorry,’ he tries again to say, because he knows they’ve already been through so much, and if things don’t work out in their favour in the morning, another change will take place within the heart of Voltron. But Lance stops him, again, and the way he kisses Keith even when they’re just playing pretend makes him desperately,desperatelywish it were real.If ever Keith thought himself deserving of love, he’d want it from Lance, and nobody else.-'Keith has a godawful sense of self-preservation' part two, now with the added bonus of a fake marriage.





	1. So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back!!! Here's part 2 of tffmo for my loyal hooligans (reading part one will be VERY helpful for understanding some of the stuff in this fic, but not totally necessary).
> 
> Better known a the part where I fuck Keith up just a smidge more and then start working to make it all better.

* * *

 

 

 

    This could not _possibly_ be going any worse.

    Of course, it hadn’t started out bad. He’d broken every prisoner out of their cells, mixed in with a random assortment of Galra rebels, and Hunk, Allura, and Lance had escorted everyone out while Pidge did her usual thing, stealing every tidbit of information she could get her hands on. Business as usual.

    Keith stuck around to do a sweep of all the cells and the various other rooms on this floor, in case they forgot anyone, and to stand guard over Pidge while she downloaded all the video footage from the ship.

    Then, the cell doors came back online while he was touching the doorframe, and now his hands and wrists are burnt, raw, and bleeding profusely.

   _“Okay, guys, they’re definitely onto us now,”_ Lance says over the comms. _“Keith, Pidge, you should probably get your butts out of there before they realize we’ve still got people inside.”_

     _Too late_ , Keith thinks, when red lights start flashing above his head and a swarm of sentries rounds the corner to his right. “Pidge, _run_.”

    “One second, I’m--”

    “ _Now_.”

    She must listen, because Keith can see her disappearing around a bend in the corridor leading back to the hangar she snuck Green into. He’s close behind, running for dear fucking life because no way in hell is he going to be able to hold his bayard like this. It feels like he stuck his hands in a vat of hot oil and razor blades.

    Except, then he has to, because Pidge yells loudly and there’s a flash of green up ahead, and they’re surrounded on both sides. It literally brings tears to his eyes when he activates his bayard and swings it at the robots who are ganging up on Pidge.

    “Alright, I need you guys to drop those prisoners off at the castle and then come back out and provide a good enough distraction to keep them focused on the outside.”

    _“Already on it,”_ Allura says.

    Once he’s taken a couple sentries out, he shoves Pidge towards the hangar again. “Go!”

    “What? Hell no, I’m staying right here!” She electrocutes a sentry and then rounds on him. “Why don’t _you_ go?”

    “I’ll be right behind you. I’m better with close combat, and _you_ have valuable information. Take it with you and get out of here.” He has to kick a sentry several times to shake it off, as it bears down on him with its own sword. “That’s an order.”

    Pidge does run through the gap Keith clears for her, clearly indignant about it, and then it’s just him and upwards of a dozen sentries, but he’s definitely been in worse situations. One of them points a gun at Pidge’s retreating back, and Keith slices its arms clean off.

    In the process, though, he leaves himself open, and has to muffle a scream with his already-aching hands when a plasma blast pierces the armour on his thigh.

    This better not result in another damn trip to the stupid damn med bay. He’s getting really sick of those. Not that no one else ends up there (hell, Hunk was in there last week after a piece of rubble fell on his head), but Keith’s been in a cryopod a frankly astounding number of times at this point.

    He doesn’t really pay any mind to the fact that he’s unbalanced and kind of woozy until after the last sentry is a sparking heap of broken parts on the floor, and his ass hits the hard metal below him. He’s just wondering what the fuck he slipped on when the smell of blood reaches him, and -- oh.

    That’s probably not good.

    Is _that_ his femoral artery? Interesting. But, again, probably not good.

   The sound of footfalls echoes around him, seemingly coming from all directions, and for a second he’s relieved that someone is coming to get him, because walking is going to be really hard and his survival instincts aren’t doing much for him right now, what with the adrenaline starting to wear off (or maybe that’s blood loss). Then he realizes that that’s probably not one of his teammates, and is, in fact, most likely some Galra loyalists coming to finish him off.

    “Could use a little help,” he mumbles weakly into the comms. Black is radiating anxiety in his mind, begging him to get the hell out of there and come back to her -- _Can’t find; where you?; get to me_ \-- from where she’s still in the castle, because he came here with Pidge, and now Pidge is gone because he _told_ her to leave, and she listened, and that’s good, right?

    He might regret that pretty soon.

     _Green?_ He asks his Lion.

     _Help fight._

    It occurs to him that he’s never heard any of the Lions use _words_ before.

    “ _What's going on?_ ” Lance asks. It takes Keith a second to realize he's being spoken to. He inhales deeply through his nose and forces himself to focus.

    “I'm hurt,” he admits. “I'm… I think I'm surrounded. I need someone to, I dunno, to distract them long enough for me to get out, or-- maybe you guys should just go.”

    Yeah, that would be better. He doesn't see a point in them wasting time and energy trying to give him an opening he won't be able to take advantage of.

    “ _Yeah,_ right _._ ” Lance snorts. _“Pidge, I need a map of the ship right now,”_ he says. _“And I need the … the B.L.I.P. thing you guys use with it.”_

    Someone is shouting somewhere nearby. The Galra behind him must be checking the cells they just freed all the prisoners from. The steady beat of sentries approaching up ahead makes his heart seize. He is so screwed.

  _“There should be a panel about a metre and a half up the wall, right near you. Do you see it?”_

    “Uh.” Keith gazes around until he spots it, behind him to the left, and he nods, then remembers Lance can't see that. “Yeah.”

   _“Good, okay. There's a ventilation shaft there. You need to move fast, and you need to lift it from the bottom and then pull it open. I'll direct you to the hangar.”_

    He hobbles over to the panel and follows Lance's instructions. Fortunately it's wide enough to give him plenty of space to move, though he has to pause and take a deep breath when he bends his injured leg to crawl inside.

   _“Great. Follow the vent forward and turn right at the first intersection.”_

    “How do I know this is gonna get me to the hangar?”

     _“Trust me. I can see your location and I'm looking at a layout of the entire ship right now. All the vents are connected. This will take you anywhere you want to go. Do you trust me?”_

    Keith snorts. “Is there an option B?”

    _“Typical.”_ Keith can all but hear Lance rolling his eyes.

    He shuffles through the ventilation shaft on his knees and elbows, because it hurts too much to try to put any weight on his hands. “What next?” he asks after he makes the first right. He's trying really hard not to sound like he's in pain, but the question comes out sounding more angry than anything.

    _“Keep straight until I tell you to stop.”_

    Keith is just light-headed enough from blood loss to find the humour in that. “Oh, I stopped a long time ago,” he mutters through a half-hearted grin.

     _“What?”_

    “Nothing.”

    Keith drags himself through the dusty vent in relative silence for a few moments -- the sounds of sentries and soldiers in the corridor well behind him have faded, and the alarms in the ship have become background noise, but he's forced to listen to his teammates radio chatter as they keep the loyalists engaged in an attempt to distract them from his presence.

    He's going to owe Lance big time when he's out of here, he thinks. He has to stop and take a moment to catch his breath, listening to Lance give orders to the other paladins somewhere in the skies outside this ship.

   _“Right here is good. The vent is going to split three ways up ahead. Take the far left. It should be on an incline. That's going to lead straight to the hangar -- Allura, fall back! You've got fighters closing in on you and it will be too easy to isolate you when you're that far from us.”_ Keith nods in acknowledgement of the instructions even though Lance can't see him.

    He can see the place where the shaft splits off just a few metres away. When he tries to move towards it, he slips in his blood and lands on his face with a pained grunt. Okay, maybe he'll just lie here for a couple minutes.

    A couple minutes is interrupted in short order by Lance. _“Why are you still there? Take a left. Can you hear me?”_

    Keith makes a noise that can probably be interpreted as affirmation, blinking his eyes open to find his visor fogged up by his laboured breathing. Yes, that's right. Somewhere past that barrier of condensation is the path to freedom, but hell if he isn't too tired to be bothered with it.

    The survival instinct that's kept him alive and kicking through everything from house fires to being stabbed to watching his own mother die in front of him seems to be finally, spectacularly failing. He just wants to sleep.

   _“Keith, talk to me, buddy. What's happening?”_ Lance's voice is clearer now, brought into sharper focus by the private channel they're connected on.

    “I can see it,” he offers feebly, even though his vision really is becoming obscured by the wet, shallow breaths he's taking.

   _“That's good. Why aren't you going to it?”_

    “Just … need a second.”

   _“You've had plenty of seconds. We need you out of there so we can retreat, Keith. We got what we came for. The prisoners are free and safe on the castleship, Pidge stole all of the loyalist info, now we just need you.”_

    “I'm working on it,” he promises, even though he doesn't make any move to lift himself off the unusually warm metal. “Just need a breather.”

    _“How badly are you hurt?”_ Lance demands, and Keith is in no position to lie about that.

    Especially considering the odd warmth seeping through his flight suit where he's sprawled out in the vent is more of his blood. “Um. Well, I got shot, but just in the leg,” he says, then adds, “But it might've hit an artery, I think.” He doesn't bother to mention the injury to his hands since that doesn't seem to be such a pressing issue by comparison.

    _“You_ think _!? Jesus._ Ugh _. You're going to be the death of me.”_

    “I'm not an expert. I think I'd be dead by now if it did? I dunno. It's a lot of blood.”

     _“Okay. Okay, it's okay, I'm getting you out of there. I just need you to keep moving,_ please. _”_

    “Aye, aye, captain,” Keith grumbles, forcing himself to continue crawling forward even though it’s pretty much the last thing he wants to do.

    It’s only with tremendous effort that he makes it up the stupid incline and finds himself face-to-grate with the panel that opens from the ventilation shaft into the hangar. He doesn’t have much choice but to kick at it until the screws holding it in place come loose and the whole thing clatters to the floor several metres below with what is quite possibly the _loudest_ noise Keith has ever heard. He groans and peers down into the hangar. “And do you recommend I break both legs to get out, or…?”

    _“Don’t be ridiculous,”_ Lance chides, but he doesn’t offer Keith any alternatives, so Keith sighs and takes up the nerve-wracking task of crawling out of the shaft in a way that won’t result in him falling to his death, which involves some half-assed gymnastics and putting more pressure on his injured hands than he’d like. Finally, when he’s dangling over the edge of the vent with his feet as close to the ground as they’re going to get, he lets go and braces for impact.

    A sound like a feral dog might make leaves him when a shock of white-hot pain shoots up his injured leg, but fortunately he doesn’t appear to have broken anything, so he gets up and limps over to the nearest cruiser. The panel by the door registers his handprint despite how mangled the palm is by burns, and he thanks his lucky stars for that as he hoists himself into the stupid cruiser and gets _the hell out of there._

    Outside the ship, he is immediately greeted by bright bursts of gunfire and the sight of his trusted Red Lion barrelling through space towards him. The cruiser rattles as her jaws snap shut around him, and he heaves a sigh of relief and finally allows the tension he’s been holding in his body to dissipate.

    He’s only aware of another presence in the cruiser with him when he’s being dragged to his feet and hauled into Red’s brightly-lit cockpit. There, Lance situates him in the pilot’s seat and spends a moment fretting over the injuries to his hands, then moves on to the veritable hole in his thigh. Keith actually tries to stop him from touching his leg, but remembers at the last second that Lance is just trying to help and freezes up, watching warily as the current Red paladin assesses the damage and frowns, applying pressure on various points to see what helps.

    Nothing really does, but Lance settles on a spot anyway finally meets Keith’s eyes.

    “Do I need to lecture you on the value of your life, or are you going to actually learn a lesson on your own this time?”

    Keith scowls and works to formulate some kind of vicious jab to defend his own honour, but what comes out instead is, “You deserve to be the Black paladin more than I ever did. I don’t know what Black was thinking, letting me try to be a leader.”

    Lance’s jaw actually drops, but the shocked expression is quickly overtaken by one of concern. “You’re delusional,” he says, putting more pressure on the wound on Keith’s thigh.

    “I definitely am not. Tell me I’m wrong. You keep saving my stupid ass from all the stupid, idiotic situations I get myself into. You’re _such_ an incredible strategist, I can’t believe everyone else doesn’t ask for your help more often. Do they even realize how good you are? We should tell them.” Faintly, he’s aware that he should keep the embarrassing praise-spewing to a minimum, because that’s, y’know, embarrassing, but he’s so grateful to Lance for not actually abandoning him there that he can’t help the geyser of compliments. Besides, at this point a simple ‘thank you’ just wouldn’t suffice.

    “Wow,” Lance squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh my god. How much blood did you _lose_? Maybe you did hit an artery. I gotta, um…” he trails off and just grabs Keith by the elbows to make him stand up again, which is when it clicks in that Red has already landed in the castle and, yes, that’s right, he desperately needs to go into a cryopod. Once again.

    If anything is going to motivate him to develop a sense of self-preservation at this point, it will be the lectures on how much of a strain the use of the cryopods puts on the rest of the castleship.

    For now, though, he drips a trail of blood down the corridor as Lance half-carries him all the way to the med bay, miraculously uninterrupted for most of the journey, during which time he continues to thank Lance to the best of his ability. “Seriously,” he’s saying, clinging to the edge of Lance’s armour to help support himself, “we make a really good team, I think. You did so well back there. I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t helped.”

    Lance, red to the tips of his ears, just scoffs and forces Keith to take a couple more unsteady steps forward. “Whatever. You’re completely bonkers right now. You’re not even going to remember this when you wake up.”

    “Of course I am.” Keith pouts at the insinuation that he’s losing his grip on reality, but if he’s honest with himself, everything is a little fuzzy right now, and he’s definitely struggling to keep his eyes open. But he’s _pretty sure_ he’s right, and that he owes Lance an enormous debt, and that Lance is a good person who does things like this just because Keith is ‘his friend’, or something silly like that, and will insist that nothing is  _owed._

    Of _course_ he’s going to remember Lance going out of his way just to keep him safe.

 

* * *

 

 

  

   “It’s lovely to meet you, Keith,” Danielle says, holding out her hand, presumably for him to shake. He stares at it, thinks it through for a bit, then hobbles away on his crutches, fighting the steps to get to the front door.

    Behind him, he can hear Elena, his new case worker, apologizing to the foster parents she’s dropping him off with.

 

    There’s a television in the bedroom. That’s nice, he supposes. It provides a good enough distraction from everything else while he waits for his broken bones to heal, and they get a channel here that plays _Star Trek_ reruns, so all-in-all things could be worse.

    At the same time, things could probably be a whole hell of a lot better. He reminds himself of this every time Elena comes to see him and he hopes for a split second that it will be Naomi on the other side when he opens the door, and he reminds himself when Danielle and Owen bring him to the hospital for check-ups, and every time Owen kind-of-obviously avoids him. He can’t help but think about it when one of them looks at him like they expect him to speak, only for no sound to come out. He’s not even sure he tries.

    He’ll admit, he’s a little fucked up. But hasn’t he earned the right to _be_ a little fucked up?

    It’s his difficulty communicating that leads him to hit things when he can’t express himself, or to knock over that lamp or kick that armchair and accidentally put a hole in the upholstery. He’s _frustrated_ . Danielle takes it all with a smile and a kind word and it makes him want to scream and cry and spit at her all at the same time because he doesn’t _deserve_ to be treated that way, not ever, especially not after what he did to Naomi.

    

    When the cast comes off his leg, Danielle takes him for walks around the neighbourhood. They visit the park and sit on the swings sometimes, or toss dried corn to the various waterfowl that hang out around the sad little excuse for a pond, or sometimes she’ll stop by some old friend’s house and they’ll sit and drink iced tea on the porch while the adults make small talk.

    On Sundays, they walk down to the ice cream shop and Danielle buys them both sundaes, always coming up with some kind of pun about the day of the week that Keith tries not to smile at.

    It’s one of those Sundays, a couple days before his tenth birthday, that he actually says anything. He’s wary to do as much, because Elena _just_ put him back in jiu jitsu classes with a physician’s approval, and uprooting everything again might just disrupt that (again), but he can’t hold it back any longer. He’s been here for over two months, and _nothing has changed_. Danielle is still way too patient and nice, and Owen still keeps his distance, like Keith is a bomb and he’s afraid to set him off. Keith has spent two months waiting for the other shoe to drop, and frankly, it’s wearing on his nerves.

    “When do I have to leave?” he asks, between bites of vanilla ice cream full of gummy bears. “I like having a T.V. in my room,” he adds, like that’s the excuse for wondering about his time running out, and not fear of the unknowns that await him in the next place.

    For a few seconds, Danielle doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at her directly (he rarely does), but in his peripheral vision he can see a glob of ice cream slide off her spoon and land on the table. A moment later, she calmly sets the spoon down and stares at him with a strained smile that makes him bow his head further.

    “What makes you ask that?” she asks, in that same calm tone she always uses when she’s trying to get him to stop being such a sissy and just _communicate_ with her.

    He scrunches up his nose. “I ain’t … I’m not gonna stay here forever.”

    “Why not?”

    “Well, because, uh,” he starts, taken aback. “Because I, I gotta leave eventually. It’s not like you’re adopting me, and eventually I’m gonna, I dunno, I’m gonna screw something up or…” He doesn’t finish, because maybe if he says out loud that they’ll get sick of him he’ll accidentally make it come true.

   It isn’t that he doesn’t _like_ being here, it’s just that he’s not planning on getting attached because he isn’t a naive little kid anymore.

    “Well, who says we’re not adopting you?” Danielle says, and this time Keith does kind of look at her, at her earrings and then her hair and her hands and then finally he settles on the little melting glob of chocolate ice cream and rainbow sprinkles adorning the marbled surface of the table, and his heart kind of seizes up inside his chest. “That is, if you would like us to, Keith, we would absolutely love to.”

    He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no, either. He just makes some sort of anguished noise in the back of his throat and pushes the rest of his sundae away, and Danielle drops the subject immediately, but he can sense the tension he’s caused with his reaction even if she doesn’t acknowledge it.

    

    She brings it up again the day after his birthday (a quiet affair, but nicer than usual), and after a few mumbled excuses he steals away to call Elena with the phone number stuck to the fridge, demanding to be removed but refusing to give an explanation.

 

*

 

    “No! You can’t sit there! That’s Mr. Waddles’ spot!” Ella shrieks, stomping her foot for extra emphasis. Keith leaps out of the chair he was about to sit in and Ella promptly places a blue stuffed hippo in his place.

    “Uh, sorry,” Keith offers, glancing around at all the other empty chairs at Ella’s tea party like they’re going to bite him if he tries to sit again. He opts to just stand until otherwise directed.

    “Don’t apologize to _me._ Apologize to Mr. Waddles!”

    “Oh, um. Sorry, Mr. Waddles,” he says awkwardly, side-eyeing the hippo who usurped his seat at the table.

    Maksim chooses that very opportune moment to enter the room bearing a tray laden with soda crackers and a plastic teapot. “Ella, be nice to Keith. This is his first tea party.”

    Ella is only six, so Keith is going to allow for her to have her way no matter what, but it is kind of nice to have an older kid there to mediate for him. He flashes a half-smile at Maksim and Maksim grins back, then says, “You don’t have to let her boss you around, y’know. It’ll all go to her head and blow it up like a balloon.”

    Ella takes immediate offense, throwing her sparkly pink slipper at Maksim and seething, “I don’t have a balloon head, _you_ do, balloon-head!”

    “ _Hey_ , if you throw stuff at me I’ll drop all your stuff and ruin your whole tea party, _Princess Ella_.”

    She sighs and lets her shoulders fall, shuffling forward to pick up her slipper. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

    “And?”

    “And I’ll try to use nicer words next time.”

    Maksim raises an eyebrow.

    “And, uh, I’ll explain to Keith what the problem is instead of yelling at him next time,” she says, though she says it more like ‘ethplain’.

    “Very good,” Maksim praises, then says in a posh British accent, “Princess Ella, Duke Keith, honoured guests, your tea is served!”

    “Wait!” Ella cries, throwing her hands out to stop him. “We’re still not ready! I don’t even have Junie!”

    “Um, isn’t Junie too young for tea parties?” Keith asks, but regrets that when Ella pouts at him.

    “No!”

    “ _Ella._ ”

    Ella takes a deep breath and elaborates. “No, everyone is allowed to come to the tea party, even the babies, or the grown-ups, or Maksim’s really ugly toy frog he keeps hidden under the bed--”

    “O- _kay_ , that’s quite enough of that.” Maksim sets the tray down in the middle of the purple plastic table. “You two finish setting up, I’ll go get Juniper.”

    Once Maksim is gone again, Ella fixes Keith with a devious smile and pulls something out from under the table. “Look what I got for her,” she whispers (as well as a six-year-old is capable of whispering), presenting a _very_ poofy and sequin-y green dress that looks like it was made for a large doll.

    “She’s a baby,” Keith says dumbly. “How’re you gonna make her wear a dress?”

    “Well, she’s a baby,” Ella repeats. “I just gotta make her do it.”

    In the end, Maksim has to prop Junie up in her chair and lay the dress on top of her to appease both girls, because Junie kicks and screams and cries when Ella tries to wrestle her into the itchy fabric, and Ella screams and cries when Maksim tries to veto the dress. He has to make a compromise for them, and when he makes eye contact with Keith over a plastic teacup full of apple juice, he rolls his eyes, and Keith snorts so hard iced tea shoots out of his nostrils.

 

    Teaching Junie how to use a shape-sorter is probably, definitely one of the most frustrating things he’s ever done.

    “No, oh my god, that’s a _square_ , you can’t fit it through the _circle hole_ , are you _kidding me_ ?” he grumbles, trying to redirect her hand to the correct spot on the toy, but she puts up so much resistance that he gives up and is forced to watch her try to cram the square through every hole _except_ the square one.

    “How?!” he demands, burying his face in his hands and sighing.

    Little pudgy fingers grab at his hands and he uncovers his face, whispering ‘boo’ as Junie squeals and giggles with delight.

    “You’re really awful at this,” he tells her, then after a moment’s thought, adds, “But at least you’re trying. You’ll get better once you try enough times, I bet.”

    She answers him with a string of absolute gibberish, which he does his best to imitate. Her face lights up and she babbles at him again. He repeats the sounds right back.

    Maksim enters the living room with a basket of clean laundry in his arms, and he imitates the sounds Keith makes, which makes their game even more hilarious, somehow. Junie claps her hands and kicks her little feet up and down and Keith laughs so hard his arms go weak and he has to lie there with his face smooshed against the carpet until he can calm down.

 

    If Keith stays here any longer, he is going to be _so screwed_. He’s already gotten way too attached as it is, and the longer he stays in this house the worse it’s going to get.

    His heart aches something fierce when he hears Junie crying in her crib, but he forces himself to ignore her because she’s going to have to face the reality that one day, he isn’t going to be around anymore. Besides, eventually their foster mom will go to her, and that’s going to have to suffice for now (until she gets moved to the next foster home, and the next, and so on until she ends up the way Keith is).

    Like he said, maybe it’s for the best if he leaves sooner rather than later, to spare them all a little bit of pain down the road. Mostly himself. He doesn’t know if he can handle leaving at this point, but he’s aware that it’s just going to be _so much worse_ if he waits too long.

    The broken plate isn’t an accident, it’s just the beginning of a carefully calculated string of events designed to get him kicked out, since Elena was very adamant about the fact that he needs an actual _reason_ to ask to be removed from a foster home, and she isn’t going to do it again unless he actually explains himself. His other option is to get kicked out, which he is notoriously good at.

    The holes in the furniture are frustrating for his foster parents, but not quite enough to earn him a phone call to the agency. Getting into fights at school has never been difficult for him -- he’s the ‘weird kid’, so bullies kind of flock to him, and they’re somehow always shocked that he’s able to hold his own against four or five kids twice his size. A lifestyle as turbulent as his comes with a whole lot of practice on that front. He gets reprimanded, at most, but he can see that he’s finally wearing them down.

    His last resort is violence at the house. This part _is_ hard for him, because the other kids are actual good people, but he’s running out of options and he’s been here two weeks longer than he’d anticipated, and he’s drawn to the sound of a baby crying like a moth to a lamp, like his instincts are flaring out of control, which is ridiculous because he’s a ten year old kid and shouldn’t _have_ any kind of parental instinct. It physically hurts him to not do anything to help Junie when she cries, and she’s a rather fussy baby so he’s spent several nights crying himself to sleep with a pillow over his ears.

    He storms into Maksim’s room all geared up to just _do it_ , but Maksim gives him a half-salute and a cheerful ‘Sup?’ by way of greeting and Keith’s resolve crumbles. “I need to punch you,” he says without really meaning to.

    Maksim sets down his math book and squints at him for a while. “Hm. Okay. Dare I ask why?”

    He _really_ likes Maksim; they get along just swimmingly, which makes this infinitely harder than it needs to be, and his panic and defensiveness turns into anger all too easily. “Why’s it matter?! I just need to, that’s all!”

    “Wow.” Maksim actually whistles in response to Keith’s outburst, probably because he hasn’t seen much of that sort of behaviour from him. “Well, do it, then.”

    How he can remain so calm right now is beyond Keith, who grits his teeth and exhales sharply. He _will_ do it: he _will_ punch Maksim, and then get in trouble, and then leave forever and spend the rest of his life missing them, and nothing is going to stop him. Except, maybe, the brotherly attachment that wells up inside his heart every time he sees him. That’s doing a pretty good job of stopping him. “I _can’t_ ,” he hisses, and Maksim just nods.

    “You’re trying to get in trouble.”

    “No, I’m not.”

    “And I’m a unicorn. Why do you want to get in trouble?”

    “Shut up.”

    Maksim actually strokes his chin pensively, then nods and clicks his tongue, “Hm. Yeah. Seems to me like you’re trying to get kicked out. But _why_?”

    “I said, _shut up_!”

    “Well, if I may have some input, I don’t want you to leave, and if you want Ella’s opinion, you’re a model citizen in the Kingdom of Sparkles. And Junie is probably not going to like it, either. But, if that’s what you really want, then just hold on a sec.” He picks up his math textbook -- the big, bulky kind that high-schoolers use -- and fixes Keith with a steady look. “Are you positive?”

    Keith nods dumbly, wondering what in the hell Maksim is about to do to him, with a textbook that looks like it could flatten a small dog, no less. “I gotta go somewhere else.”

    Maksim sighs, raises the book in front of himself at an awkward angle, and as Keith braces himself and squeezes an eye shut, smacks _himself_ right across the face with it. Despite the angle, he gets himself good enough that dark red mark starts to form almost instantly along his cheekbone and a trickle of blood runs out of his nose where the tail-end of the blow caught him. Keith’s jaw drops.

    “You still sure?” Maksim wheezes as he doubles over in pain.

    Wide-eyed, Keith nods and forces himself to stay rooted to the spot, despite one half of his brain telling him to _help_ and the other half telling him to flee the scene so he can’t be blamed. Maksim hands him the textbook and winks. “Alright. I’m gonna start yelling, then.”

 

*

 

    Keith has already resigned himself to seeing Lars at the group home. It goes about how he expects, in that the second there aren't any adults around, Lars is there and his grudge, or whatever, hasn't faded.

    He doesn't try to attack him, like he used to, because he's probably afraid Keith will kick his ass again, but he taunts him relentlessly everywhere he goes for weeks, provided that no adult is around to hear.

    Lars' departure from the group home is followed immediately by the arrival of a _very_ colicky baby named Mia, who Keith attaches himself to like a life raft.

    The people who run the group home are understandably wary of letting a ten-year-old boy care for a two-month-old baby, but he doesn’t let that deter him. Sometimes, under supervision, he gets to help take care of her or spend time playing with her, the same way sometimes he’ll be allowed to help out in the kitchen provided that an adult is around, or do basic maintenance around the house as long as all the tools are accounted for afterwards. Sometimes, he sneaks into the ‘baby room’ in the middle of the night just to make sure she’s okay. Sometimes when she _just won’t stop crying_ , someone hands her to him and he’ll rock her and sing the lullabies Naomi taught him until she calms down.

    When he finally gets carted off to the next foster home, he finds himself shedding a few tears as he lies in bed on the first night, then reprimands himself for being stupid enough to get attached in the first place.


	2. Bottle It Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for: recreational drug use, bullying, abuse, implied noncon, and a suicide attempt.
> 
> Yup, good luck.
> 
> Point out my mistakes to me whenever you encounter them, please. I'm my own editor and I'm far from perfect.

* * *

 

 

    Lance shoves open the door of the Black Lion's hangar with as much force as his adrenaline-fueled rage can bestow upon him; that is, he almost breaks the door off its track.

“ _Keith_!” he shrieks, marching straight for Black’s open jaw as Keith wobbles down the ramp with his helmet grasped in one hand, the other wrapped around his torso in a clear attempt to retain some warmth. He's hunched over, still trying to catch his breath.

    “What?” He grumbles, squinting up at Lance’s approaching form.

    “What do you mean, ‘what’?” Lance stops at the bottom of the ramp with his hands on his hips, but Keith forces himself to stand straighter and continue on past him and out the jammed door. “Are you not aware of what just happened?” He turns and hurries after him, anger sparking beneath his skin.

    “Everyone's okay, right?” Keith asks, turning to look at him with apprehension in his expression. “We did okay?”

    Lance splutters, gesturing frantically at Keith in general as he tries to form a sentence. He has to stop and calm his breathing so his heart will chill out, because it's still doing gymnastics and not in the fun way. Keith takes the opportunity to start walking again, turning the corner -- not to the med bay, but towards the common room and sleeping quarters. “The hell do you mean? ‘Everyone's okay’?! Look at yourself! You're bleeding!”

    “Not badly.” Keith shrugs as they approach the common room, where the rest of the team will gather for debriefing. He wipes the trickle of blood from his nose like that will prove his point.

    “Are you--?” Honest to god, he's about to rip his own hair out. “You have _got_ to stop doing this!”

    Keith finally faces him completely, inquiry drawn into his features.

    Lance cannot fucking believe he's confused about this. He cannot _believe_ Keith would attempt to throw his own life away _again_ and still not understand that it scares the people around him.

    “Doing what?” Keith asks, and Lance really, seriously needs to cool down before he starts crying or something.

    He runs a hand through his hair, looks up to the ceiling like he’ll find some help there, and counts to three in his head. “Reckless shit,” he finally growls. “Like, oh, I dunno, throwing yourself into the path of some crazy alien ice magic stuff like you’re invincible! Almost dying! Scaring the crap out of everyone!”

    “I didn’t almost die, Lance,” Keith snaps, though he doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as he’s trying to when he’s shivering like that, and if Lance weren’t so busy being mad he’d find him a blanket or something. “I’m fine, everyone else is fine, it doesn’t matter!”

    “Like _hell_ it doesn’t! What do you think we’d do if one day one of your stupid ideas got you killed? Huh? Do you think that would be _fine_?” He knows he’s crowding into Keith’s space, but Keith is pushing right back, and he’s so cold that Lance can _feel_ the chill seeping through his own armour.

    “Why do you care so much?” Keith is _glaring_ at him, but his anger can’t mask the lingering confusion -- suddenly, _horribly_ , it clicks.

    The fight drains right out of Lance, his shoulders slumping as Keith takes a step backwards to reassess the situation. “Keith,” he breathes, scrubbing his hands over his face as he attempts to recollect himself.

    “...What?” Keith’s eyeing him cautiously now, feet twisted ever so slightly to the side like he’s ready to turn and bolt at a moment’s notice.

    “Jesus, Keith. Of course I _care_. Everyone on this team cares about you. _Everyone_ would be upset if you got hurt.” He sees Keith open his mouth to interrupt, so he holds up a hand to stop him. “It doesn’t matter what you _think_ everyone thinks about you, we all still care. You _know_ we love you, right?”

    Lance can almost pinpoint the moment that something in Keith seems to break a little, ears flicking straight up, then flat against his head. His eyes widen almost comically, face going slack, and the helmet in his hand clatters to the floor. The sound is thunderous in the otherwise silent hallway, as Keith stares at Lance like he just jump-started the apocalypse while Lance stares back, trying to figure out what the hell he did wrong.

    “Keith?”

    Keith’s helmet rolls to a stop against Lance’s foot just as Keith turns tail and books it down the hallway faster than should be possible. Lance can’t do much besides stare dumbly at his retreating back for a few seconds, not entirely clear on what just happened. He could’ve sworn he saw tears in Keith’s eyes in the split second before he turned away.

    Did he insult him somehow? He hadn’t meant anything bad by it. He'd just wanted Keith to understand that he is loved and cared for, so risking his life every other day is kind of stressing them all out.

 

    ...Oh.

    Oh, no. Lance’s heart feels like it’s being pumped full of lead.

    He grabs the helmet and sprints the rest of the way to the common room, skidding to a stop just inside the doorway, and is greeted by five pairs of eyes on him.

    “I thought you went to get Keith?” Hunk asks, then he leaps up out of his seat and starts fluttering his hands and twisting back and forth like he isn’t sure where to go. “Oh, god! Is he okay?! Does he need a cryopod? Where is he?”

    “Shiro,” Lance starts, voice dangerously low. Shiro’s confusion at being addressed in such a way quickly fades into a quiet fear when Lance advances towards him, slamming Keith’s abandoned helmet down on the coffee table with a resounding _crack_. “You’ve known Keith for a long time. Care to explain to me why he freaked out when I tried to tell him that we love him?”

    “He’s okay?” Hunk squeaks, at the same time Shiro says, “What do you mean?”

    “I _mean_ , who the _hell_ forgot to remind Keith at some point during his twenty-something years of life that people _love and care about him_?” He’s standing over Shiro now, arms crossed and looking everything like a _furious_ authority figure, so much so that even Allura leans back a bit.

    “Oh,” Shiro says under his breath. Then, louder, “Oh, no.”

    “Oh, yeah,” Lance hisses.

    Shiro leans forward with his face in his hands. “Oh, shi-- where is he?”

    “I dunno, but I’m not leaving until I get answers, which means neither are you.”

    Pidge sighs and removes her chestplate, tossing it onto the couch. “I’ll go find him. Hunk, care to join me?”

    “I just remembered I have something very important to attend to,” Coran says, backing out of the room, and Allura follows quickly after him with a short explanation about just ‘lending a hand.’

    “Lance,” Shiro begins once they’re alone, the warning obvious in his tone.

    “I don’t care, Shiro. I don’t care how much you think whatever you have to say will affect me. I already know Keith’s an orphan, I already know he probably grew up in the foster system, and that a lot of those kids end up dead or worse by his age. I _know_. What I want to know is what went wrong, and when, and how we are going to fix it. And we’re starting with making sure that he knows he’s a part of our family.” Aware that he’s begun to sound less angry and more desperate, Lance takes several steps backwards and seats himself on the sofa opposite Shiro, never redirecting his cold gaze.

    Shiro sighs and closes his eyes; runs a hand through his hair before opening them again. “Honestly?” He looks at Lance as though seeking approval to continue. Lance nods minutely.

    Who the hell is he kidding -- he is in no way ready for this conversation. Yet here he is, backing Shiro into a corner just so he can figure out how in the hell to proceed.

    “It all went wrong.” Shiro steeples his fingers, exhaling heavily through his nose as his gaze drifts to the blank expanse of wall behind Lance. “I don’t even know some of the details, but it’s a miracle he’s alive right now.”

    “Were none of the families … good to him?” Lance inquires, softly, as though Shiro may not hear and won’t tell him exactly what he doesn’t want to know.

    “No, by my understanding he had a couple of good homes. But I think, by that time, he was so distant and aggressive that no one ever really connected with him. And, you know, with the foster system, it’s never a good thing to get attached to a child. So obviously saying they loved him was off the table. I cannot _believe_ I didn’t think about that. I mean, I don’t make a habit of reminding him, either, but he’s essentially my brother, so I figured it was kind of implied.”

    “I hate to break it to you, but Keith doesn’t seem like the type of person who would just pick up on something like that.”

    “No, you’re right.” Shiro scrubs a hand over his forehead like he’s fending off a headache. “That’s really the kind of thing that needs to be expressed openly, isn’t it?”

    Lance sees the opportunity to rope Shiro into ‘Operation: Give Keith More Hugs’, but he’s interrupted by Pidge launching herself through the doorway, red-faced and panting. “Ice magic is bad,” she heaves, hunched over and clutching a stitch in her side, like that’s a complete explanation for why she looks like she outright sprinted here. When both occupants of the room just look at her like she’s grown an extra head, she makes a frustrated noise and elaborates. “Keith’s hypothermic. Med bay.”

    Then she’s gone again.

    Lance launches himself off the couch and follows her, Shiro at his side, all the way to where Hunk is just depositing Keith onto a bed in the med bay. Everyone else is already there. No longer shivering like a leaf in the wind, Keith looks like he’s sleeping, except that he’s ghostly pale and his lips are tinted blue, and Lance is really going to lose his goddamn mind because of this guy. He’s been stripped down to just his black flight suit and his breaths are slow and shallow. “Oh my god, you’re going to kill me. I’m going to die one of these days because of you. You stress me out _so goddamn much_ , Keith, I swear to _god--”_ he growls, and then Keith is blinking unfocused violet eyes up at him.

    “What’d I do?” he slurs; Coran is tucking a blanket around him but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

    “Same reckless shit as usual.”

    Keith actually laughs a little bit at that, feeble though it is. “Sounds about right.”

    He doesn’t have the presence of mind to question it when Allura places her hands on his chest and tries to warm his core with quintessence. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be mentally present at all after that exchange, and it’s only when his fluffy little Galra ears start to relax against the sides of his head that Lance even realizes he’s falling asleep, and that’s a bad thing.

    Pidge beats him to the punch, though. Literally. She slaps Keith across the face so hard that his whole body jolts with surprise. “Sorry,” she says, then, “Stay awake.”

    “Stay awake,” Keith repeats, nodding as his eyes slip shut again. Lance is pretty sure Keith doesn’t even register the meaning of the sentence.

    Coran is quick to usher everyone from the room once Allura assures them that he’s going to live (and Lance’s idea about sticking him in a cryopod to finish healing is shot down, because, wait a second, a chamber that literally freezes people won’t fix hypothermia). Pidge is allowed to stay since she apparently has no qualms about resorting to drastic measures to prevent Keith from letting himself die. Lance should take a page from her book. Asking politely obviously doesn’t work.

    The end result is Lance tearing through every training simulation available to him while Hunk watches to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed. Shiro shows up to join him eventually.

    Lance kind of gets it now: this is as good a stress reliever as any, and at least this way he can imagine he’s shooting the things that have the audacity to hurt his friends.

    

 

* * *

 

 

    Bilal and Mila are the exact kind of world-weary foster kids Keith knows all too well, and realizes he’s becoming, but at the very least they’re _nice_ , and they don’t treat him like a baby, and their easy-going personalities might just be all the pot they smoke but hell, it’s better than being high-strung, or an outright asshole.

    Keith’s no longer naive or innocent; he knows exactly what they’re doing, exactly what they talk about all the time when they act like he’s too young to understand, exactly how desperately he doesn’t want to become them, and exactly how inevitable his fate is. They can act like he’s never seen a drug before all they want, but it isn’t going to change the fact that he’s already aware. It’s not as though he’ll do something stupid like tattle on them, anyway.

    And then, on his eleventh birthday (something he wasn’t planning on sharing information about, but that their foster parents make a point of announcing over breakfast), Bilal invites him up into the attic and _hands him a joint_ , and Keith’s jaw hits the floor.

    “What? You’re eleven now. All grown up and whatever. You might as well try it while Mila and I are here to keep an eye on you, instead of some stranger you can’t trust.”

    “Oh,” is all Keith says, staring, dumbfounded, at the _drugs he is holding oh_ **_god_** **.** He cautiously raises it to his lips and inhales, and spends the next several hours laughing at absolutely nothing, but _nothing_ is suddenly just so funny, and wow, how come Bilal didn’t let him try this before?

    It’s barely a month later that Bilal is caught with drugs at school, and Keith is reminded that things like that aren’t actually okay, as he’s being transported from their current foster home to the next unknown.

 

*

 

    Both of these kids are way older than him, and they’ve been living in this house for six months already. Keith is almost intimidated, but in his experience teenagers in foster homes are generally laid-back and interesting to be around, so even if he’s been placed somewhere without any younger kids, he’ll get on just fine for the time he’s here.

 

    He couldn’t possibly be more wrong.

    Aleksander and Tallulah are assholes. They bully Keith relentlessly for everything they can think of, steal his belongings, try to burn his hair, and shove him in front of moving cars. The whole time, they tell him they’re just making sure he’s prepared to face the world, because “a weak bitch like you isn’t ready for reality.”

    Of course, in front of their foster parents and case workers, they act like they just adore their new baby brother.

    Keith can’t stand it. He’s been here for less than two months and he’s ready to call it quits, but he can already tell Elena is getting fed up with him and honestly, isn’t this a better situation than living somewhere that he has to worry about developing attachments to people?

    He can punch Aleksander all he wants, but every time he just laughs and tells Keith how he’s been through so much worse. And he punches back a hell of a lot harder, being a brutish seventeen-year-old and all.

    It’s only on the second last night that Keith spends in that godforsaken house that things become unbearable, when Aleksander gets drunk and drags Keith bodily into the alley out back, asking if he’s ready to face the realities of the foster system with breath that reeks of whiskey. Tallulah is there already, and she splashes some of the booze on his hair and face, laughing raucously, before pinning his arms to the ground. The sharps edges of gravel dig into his skin and he squirms in an attempt to free himself, but then Aleksander sits on his legs and presses his hands flat to Keith’s back to force him down.

    “C’mon, what’s the matter, huh? If you ain’t strong enough, you ain’t gonna make it to our age in the first place,” Tallulah sneers. “If you think you’re tough enough, you should fight us off.”

    Keith tries and _tries_ to free himself from their grasp, but all he succeeds in doing is scratching up his arms until they bleed while Tallulah continues to laugh at him.

    “If you _ain’t_ tough enough,” Aleksander growls in his ear, and the hand on Keith’s lower back digs in until he whines at the discomfort, “you’re gonna die early, and miserably, with someone way worse than us.”

    “So you might as well just end it yourself.”

    Keith shakes his head, frantic; his legs are starting to cramp because he’s trying to move them but Aleksander weighs too much for it to work. “No, no, I … I don’t _want_ to,” he insists.

    Maybe he does, or maybe he has, in the past, and maybe one day he will, but no way in _hell_ is he going to kill himself just because these jerkoffs want him to. Aleksander can beat him up all he wants -- Keith _isn’t_ going to be like them, no matter what they say, and he definitely isn’t going to let them tell him what to do.

    His head is slammed so forcefully to the ground that he swears he sees stars.

 

    It takes a full twenty-four hours before he’s able to actually come back to his senses enough to register what _happened_ , and after he’s done dry-heaving into the toilet for longer than he’d care to admit, he _does_ call Elena, who sounds as exasperated as he expected, then concerned, then _pissed_ , but at least she isn’t pissed at _him_ , he thinks, as he passes the phone on to his foster parents and listens to her blow up at them over inadequate supervision.

  
  


    Elena calls the next foster family with Keith in the passenger seat of the car, and even though it’s well past midnight they take the time to prepare the spare bedroom for him. His newest foster mother’s name is Reed, and she picks him up in the waiting room at the hospital and acts like he’s made of glass. Maybe he is.

    The tension in the air is palpable the whole way to the house, and still when he enters his new bedroom with both foster parents hovering a reasonable distance behind him in the hallway. He glances over his shoulder at them, clinging to each other and looking nervous as can be, and grunts something that might be “goodnight”, but he’s not even sure. He just wants to sleep. Forever.

    Par for the course, Alex, his foster father, avoids him like the plague. Elena visits twice a week, and now he’s seeing a therapist again. At this point, Elena might as well roll him up in bubble wrap and stick him in a box labelled, “FRAGILE: THIS SIDE UP”. If they’re going to act like he’s a feral animal and the smallest thing will set him off, he’ll make sure their stupid fucking work is cut out for them.

    He actually growls at Alex one day when he sits too close, and while it startles them both (Keith didn’t think it would sound _that_ animalistic), he gets a sense of satisfaction from having some form of petty revenge for the way he’s being fussed over.

 

    The lock on the medicine cabinet in the washroom is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. What the _hell_ do they think he’s going to do? Take all of Reed’s sleeping pills? Overdose on Tylenol?

    Well, if that’s what they’re going to anticipate, he figures he might as well be predictable. He’s nothing if not resourceful, and they haven’t exactly taken all the necessary precautions to prevent an angry preteen from busting it open and getting what he wants. All it takes to get it open is a screwdriver, as he altogether removes the latch they’ve put a padlock on. The whole time, he reminds himself he’s doing this out of spite and _not_ because, maybe, Aleksander and Tallulah were right.

    He grabs everything that looks even remotely like it could kill him if he took too much and opens all the bottles, including the sleeping pills and the Tylenol, then sits there on the floor for an indiscernible amount of time turning the idea over in his head.

    But really, what would his alternative be? Age out of the system and pray things work out? End up homeless? Become a drug addict? Turn into the kind of person who hurts other people?

    It isn’t like anything is going to improve for him. Nobody will ever want him, and if he keeps going the way he is, he’s afraid he’ll end up just like everyone he’s ever hated in his life.

    It’s the middle of the night, so they probably won’t find him until the morning. He feels a bit guilty, knowing he’s Reed and Alex’s first ever foster kid, and really, they aren’t bad people, and this is probably going to upset them. But isn’t that better than knowing they let a kid live and he grew into one of the awful people that the world is already overflowing with?

    This is better.

    This _has_ to be better.

    


	3. No Light, No Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for more recreational drug use (foster kids smoking pot), genocide, fire, probably some other bad stuff

* * *

 

 

    The Hayettling Council Commons is architecturally stunning. It’s also cleverly placed in a well-populated part of the planet that is easily accessible from most other areas, and while Hayett 2.0 is relatively small, it’s easy to see the thought and care that went into every aspect of the design. In fact, it’s easy to see that thought and care goes into every aspect of their lives. Humans could learn a great deal from these aliens.

    Hell, _most_ races in the galaxy could stand to learn something from them.

    Keith can’t help but wonder how the hell the Galra empire turned out the way it did when they share a genetic ancestor with Hayettlings. Someone shat in Zarkon’s cornflakes at some point, obviously, but how did all the loyalists end up the way they did when every Hayettling goes out of their way to ensure everyone around them is comfortable and happy?

    The shock he’s experiencing is written all over the faces of all the other humans in the room, though for the Alteans this seems to be par for the course.

    Funny how much a different upbringing can change everything for the better, isn’t it?

    Much like Earth, Hayett is divided into sections similar to countries, each tasked with developing its own set of rules and regulations, while overseen by a general Council comprised of members of each section. Unsurprisingly, the primary qualifications for a spot on the Council are compassion and empathy.

    Not that those traits are particularly difficult to come by on this planet.

    So all the aliens around them are here because they were voted in by the members of their sections based on what great people they are. Keith is here because a robot lion decided he was an okay pilot.

    Not that he’s ever been exceptionally confident, but wow. Hard to live up to the kind of example these guys are setting.

    Perhaps most surprising of all is the fact that not a single Hayettling has shot him the customary look of distrust that seems to come with the Galra features. Considering the Galra are essentially their cousins (and that Hayettlings kind of do just look like colourful Galra), maybe that _shouldn’t_ be a surprise, but since the Galra kind of did destroy half their population and blow up their planet ten thousand years ago, he was bracing himself for some kind of backlash.

    True to their too-kind and too-forgiving nature, they don’t treat him any differently than the rest of Team Voltron.

    A representative from each section of the planet takes a turn speaking as an opening ceremony for the proceedings to discuss an alliance that everyone here already knows is secured -- they’re just working through the formalities at this point. Hayett wants Voltron’s protection, Voltron wants Hayett’s assistance and resources for the rebellion. Now the whole Hayettling Council just needs to sign off their agreement after they discuss the exact conditions of their alliance.

    It’s all very formal, and Keith forces himself to sit up straighter as the opening ceremony comes to a close and he realizes he’ll be expected to speak on the terms of the alliance in a few moments.

    He doesn’t get a chance.

    The sky outside the Commons lights up a sickening greyish-purple as a distant explosion shakes the entire building.

    Commotion rises up around them as several Council members scramble from their seats, shouting, but Keith reacts before half of them have even processed the situation. “Get to your Lions!” he shouts, vaulting out of his own seat. A series of explosions rattles his teeth and makes debris rain down from the ceiling. He intercepts one of the fleeing Hayettlings and commands them to make sure everyone gets out of the building, then makes his way out the door to where their Lions are waiting just across the way, the rest of the paladins close behind him.

    Out of the corner of his eye he can see Shiro and Coran veer off in the direction of the pod they took from the castle, and then Lance is sprinting up beside him and Allura goes tearing off down the street faster than he’d think possible.

    One look up at the sky confirms his suspicions -- the Galra loyalists are attacking Hayett.

    The ground beneath Keith’s feet rumbles. “Quiznak!” Lance cries, stumbling and nearly falling on his face.

    He can’t tell if the Galra ship attacking the planet even realizes that Voltron is here. They don’t seem to be aiming to destroy -- the Galra have the tech to blow up a planet with ease, so what the hell are they doing firing measly little firearms like this?

    There’s another quake, more distant this time, and as the sound of explosions fades farther away, all the noises in closer proximity become clearer.

    Hayettlings wailing all around them, buildings losing the fight with gravity and rubble settling into place. He wishes he couldn’t hear it, but he can’t tune it out, and the only thing he can do for them is get to his Lion and protect them.

    He skids to a halt, and Hunk, who is somewhere behind him, stops, too. “What?”

    The street between them and the Lions erupts in a flash of purple light, but Keith knows exactly what he heard before his ears started ringing again.

    There’s a baby crying somewhere nearby.

    “Go. I’ll catch up.” Keith waves Hunk along and turns off the street, squeezing between two collapsed buildings.

    “What are you--?”

    “Just go!”

    Hunk disappears from his sight once he emerges on the other side of the piles of stone and metal. They’ll get to their Lions just fine -- he hopes -- and he’ll be right behind them.

    He just can’t resist the urge to _help_ , because there’s a _baby_ screaming bloody murder somewhere among all this carnage and he’s imagining the worst.

    It doesn’t take long to find the source of the crying, and while it isn’t exactly the _worst_ situation he could’ve anticipated, it really doesn’t look good. A white and silver Hayettling is clutching a child to her chest, pinned from the waist down by a section of collapsed wall. She turns to look at him, and her head just kind of flops against her shoulder.

    Keith freezes on the spot. He’s faintly aware of the rest of the Lions taking off somewhere behind him, but he’s held in place by the piercing gaze of an injured mother and by the gut-wrenching realization that he’s helpless here. There’s nothing he can do to help these people.

    But he’s sure as hell going to try.

    “Let me help,” he offers, taking a few tentative steps towards them. By his understanding, both Galra and Hayettlings are fiercely protective of their young -- _terrifyingly_ so. The Hayettling woman just nods and rubs the baby’s back. Its green, striped fur is matted with blood and dust, but Keith is pretty sure all of that blood is from its mother. He spends probably too much time trying to lift the hunk of steel off the alien, if his teammates’ increasingly frantic attempts to contact him are any indication.

    The stupid thing doesn’t budge _at all_ , but Keith can’t bear to just leave them here in this situation. He can’t waste more time waiting around here when Shiro is insisting they need to form Voltron, and he can’t bother someone else for help because they’re busy trying to fight off a battle cruiser. There isn’t another Hayettling nearby, as far as he can tell, to take over for him.

    The Hayettling woman’s breathing is becoming increasingly laboured. Keith’s hands shake as he tries one last time to free her.

    But there’s no one else to help.

    She’s going to die, and there’s nothing he can _do_ \-- the poor baby she’s holding is going to be left here alone for god knows how long, in the middle of an active battle. He can’t _do that_ to someone. He should’ve just gone to his stupid Lion instead of letting himself get caught up in this.

    He makes eye contact with the woman and really wishes he hadn’t. The sorrow in her gaze is so visceral that his own eyes ache with tears that _she_ should be shedding. Is that how it feels, to be forced to abandon your child despite a desperation to _stay_ and to _help them?_ Is that how his mother felt when she had to leave him?

    “I’m sorry,” he begins, fighting the lump in his throat. “I can’t…”

    “Take him.”

    “I’m … what?”

    “Take him. He isn’t safe here,” she rasps, so softly even Keith’s hypersensitive Galra hearing struggles to process her words.

    She’s not _wrong_ , but Keith isn’t sure what the hell he’s going to do with a _baby_ while he’s in the middle of a battle. He can’t exactly dump it on the floor of the cockpit and hope for the best, but he sure as shit isn’t going to leave it here to die. God only knows how long it’s going to be before someone else comes this way with the means to actually help. He’ll figure out what to do with the kid when he gets to his Lion, and once this battle is over he’ll bring him back and give him to someone who can keep him safe.

    The Hayettling woman’s hands flutter over her child’s head a few times, smoothing out his filthy fur, and then she’s taking Keith’s hand and pressing a small card made out of a material similar to plastic to his palm. It’s an identification card, he realizes, in the same moment her breathing ceases altogether and oh, _fuck_ , okay, this is really happening.

    The kid puts up a fight when Keith tries to pick him up, but once he’s pried him off his mother he’s quick to latch on to the front of Keith’s armour with a surprisingly strong grip, and he’s reminded vaguely of a koala. He’s still wailing and crying, but there’s not much Keith can do to fix that when he’s stumbling through the wreckage of a town on his way to Black.

    “It’s okay,” he insists. “It’s okay, it’s _fine_. Everything is under control.” The crying increases in volume and he winces. Black meets him halfway and he unmutes his comms to announce that he’s on his way.

     _“What’s that sound?”_ Shiro asks, and Keith tenses up as he settles into the pilot’s seat with the baby still koala’d onto him.

    “Nothing,” he answers too quickly. “Probably some kind of interference.”

    In the split second it takes for Black to launch herself off the surface of the planet and into the atmosphere, a shift takes place that he can’t quite put his finger on, and his instinct is to look at the Galra ship as the culprit -- rightfully. A tendril of luminescent blue _something_ rises up from the planet’s surface and is sucked into a contraption attached to the bow of the ship, and then more and more tendrils appear and Allura gasps.

     _“No!”_ she cries, _“Don’t let them--!”_ Blue goes soaring past him but comes to an abrupt halt several thousand metres above the surface of the planet. _“We need to form Voltron.”_

    _“What’s happening?”_ Hunk asks, and Keith watches Yellow swoop in closer to them.

     _“They’re draining the quintessence from the planet!”_

     _“What’s going to happen?”_ Lance appears on his right, but Keith doesn’t wait around for an explanation.

    “Form Voltron!” he yells, pulling back on Black’s controls as the rest of the paladins converge on him, and then he’s engulfed in the warm glow of all the Lions melding together. Strangely enough, that seems to calm the baby down for a few seconds, as his little ears perk up and he glances around the cockpit.

    Their sword is at the ready as they bear down on the ship and it’s almost _too_ easy to get in close and carve a hole in the side. In fact, they’re met with literally no resistance. Doesn’t this ship have defenses in place? They manage to make three more significant gashes in the ship’s exterior before Keith speaks up. “Something is off.”

     _“Shouldn’t they be retaliating?”_ Pidge says at the same time.

    Keith is about to suggest that they back up and reassess, but is weighing that against the option of just tearing this thing to shreds and getting it over with, when a wormhole opens up in front of the ship and it disappears in a flash of light.

     _“What the heck?”_

     _“We’re too late,”_ Allura is saying, and Keith only has to be confused about what she means for a moment before he happens to glance down at Hayett and see the once-vibrant planet faded and rotted to nothingness.

    “What did they _do_?” Keith asks, and the baby Hayettling clinging to his chest starts crying again.

    Keith mutes himself. There’s a little bit too much to process here, and he doesn’t need everyone else hearing his stowaway. He’s just trying to determine the probability that someone might be left alive if the planet _looks like that_ when Allura answers his question.

     _“They drained all the quintessence from the planet and all its life forms. They … they killed_ everything.”

 

    

 

    Black has been standing in the hangar for several long minutes now while Keith remains seated in the cockpit, not sure how to proceed. His plans to hold onto this alien baby for temporary safekeeping and then return it when everything had settled down just got nixed. Now there isn’t a planet left to return it to, just a lifeless husk full of corpses, and _holy shit_ , they’d _just_ been talking to those aliens and attending one of their Council meetings not an hour ago.

    Now Keith is holding what is probably the last of the Hayettlings in his arms, and the last of the Hayettlings is understandably in a towering mood.

    This probably isn’t the kind of thing to just spring on the rest of the team, especially since they all seem to be so absorbed in some form of grief that the comms have been silent since Shiro ordered them all back to the castle.

    But he can’t exactly hide a whole child from them, so eventually he gets to his feet and stumbles out of Black, out of the hangar, down the corridor, all the while accompanied by the furious screeching of the baby who just _won’t stop_ and Keith can’t exactly blame him for that. The poor thing just wants his mom.

    His arrival in the common room is preceded immediately by Pidge poking her head through the doorframe, mumbling something about ‘that racket’, and then her jaw popping open in surprise. “Akira Keith Kogane,” she gasps, something she definitely picked up from Shiro, “what the hell did you do?”

  


* * *

 

 

    Why does he keep waking up in a hospital instead of staying dead? It’s like every time he just _really, really_ wishes this could be it and he could just be gone forever, he opens his eyes and there’s some nurse with a fake smile trying to make him feel better, and needles in his arms, and Elena is there, talking to someone on the phone while he tries to tune her out.

    He’s getting pretty fucking sick of it, to be frank.

  
  


    His time at the fifteenth foster home goes about as well as he could hope for. Both the other kids there like him, at the very least, and he’s hardly surprised to catch the older kid, Ryan, smoking weed by the open window of their shared room at the end of his first week.

    “You want some?” he asks, dangling the joint near Keith’s face while he’s trying to dig a pair of jogging pants out of the garbage bag all his stuff is stored in. “Ten bucks and you can have a couple puffs.”

    “I don’t have money,” Keith scoffs, and Ryan just hums and blows smoke out the window.

    “But you still want some.”

    Keith doesn’t say anything. He’s old enough to make those kinds of decisions for himself, sure, but he can still acknowledge that they probably aren’t _wise_ decisions.

    

    Later that night, while he’s lying in bed trying to fall asleep and Ryan is up listening to music so loudly through his headphones that Keith can hear every note clearly, he tries again.

    “You know they get paid to keep us here, right?”

    He debates the pros and cons of pretending to sleep. “...So what?”

    “So, they probably don’t even _use_ all the money they get. That makes it _our_ money, since they’re supposed to be using it for us.”

    “And?”

    “Just saying, if there’s anything you need cash for, there’s nothing wrong with taking some.”

    Keith finally rolls over to look at Ryan, but he’s hunched over his desk with his back to Keith, doing something on his laptop with his headphones down around his neck. “Did you tell Kylee the same thing?”

    “Hell no. She’s too young. I mean, she knows what it is, but I’m not dumb enough to sell that shit to her.”

    “But you’ll ask _me_ to steal for you.”

     _Now_ Ryan turns to face him, sly grin plastered on his face. “I wouldn’t call it stealing.” He opens a drawer lower down on the desk and removes a ziploc bag with a couple of shrivelled-up chunks of leaves drifting around the bottom, shaking it tauntingly in Keith’s direction. “More like compensation for a service. I have to pay for what I get, too, y’know. Besides, the money is technically ours, anyway.”

    Ryan’s argument only sounds convincing because Keith kind of misses the relaxed feeling that came with the first couple times he tried pot, and he’s so sick of feeling wound tight and ready to explode, like someone touching him the wrong way will make him snap, that if that’s the only way to feel okay again then he’ll take it.

    It barely takes three months for him to be caught stealing money and kicked out, and Ryan at least has the decency to look a little bit remorseful when Keith is marched out the front door glaring at him.

    

    

 

    The agency tries placing him with younger kids again, because according to Elena (who walks around with a printed copy of his life story in a folder), he seems to ‘do better’ with kids his age or younger. And while she’s probably not wrong, it pisses him off that she just gets to _know_ things like that about him and she’s not even _close_ to him.

    This family has two babies in the home, one of whom is actually a newborn -- as in, like, a couple days old.

    He stops being pissed off about everything when Elena walks him into this home and he’s greeted by the smallest creature on the whole planet. Despite the fact that the smallest creature on the whole planet is screaming her lungs out, he can’t help but be drawn to the lady holding her.

    He’s old enough to get the whole story. He knows what the whole story _means_ , because he’s practically all grown up and he understands some things that other kids his age might not, so when they tell him baby Tanya was born with a heroin addiction because her mom did drugs while she was pregnant, he doesn’t have to ask questions.

    The other baby, Cameron, is a lot older, and he can hold his own head up and crawl, and he doesn’t shake and twitch and scream all day.

    Alexis is seven, and she latches onto Keith like he’s a lifeline. She doesn’t really talk, especially not when other people are around, but sometimes she’ll whisper things into his ear. Sometimes it’s just normal stuff like asking him to reach for something she can’t get to in the kitchen, but sometimes she tells him about her parents, and how she had lived with them only a year ago, and how terrible they had been.

    She tells him how much she likes it here, and how much she hopes this family will adopt her, because they’ve never hit her and they’ve never yelled and they let her eat when she’s hungry.

    Pretty soon, Keith is starting to think the same way -- wouldn’t it be nice to stay here forever? Their foster mom lets him help out with the babies, and he’s the only person Alexis has said a word to in years, and one time they have a dance party in the kitchen because a really catchy song comes on the radio and it’s the lightest his heart has ever felt.

    He thinks it’s a nightmare at first, when he wakes up to bright heat and the wallpaper peeling and his eyes burning, but it’s too _real_ to be a dream. He launches into action, ducking under the smoke clogging the hallway and running straight for the nursery, praying that their foster parents at least had the sense to grab the other kids if they left the house, but both babies are still there, crying and choking on smoke, and he scoops them both up and _runs like hell_.

    There’s a godawful sound from above as he hurries toward the front door, trying to ignore the scorching pain on his bare feet as he steps on fallen debris from the burning house, and then something lands on him with so much _force_ and _heat_ that it knocks the air from his lungs. Whatever has fallen on top of him is heavy and _burning_ , and he can’t figure out how to breathe long enough to fill his lungs again, and all he’s aware of when everything goes black is that the baby crying beside him sounds just like the sirens outside.


	4. The Appraisal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any content warnings for this chapter, aside from the usual stuff??
> 
> Keith cries, Lance cries, Shiro is an idiot, Pidge is a gift, yadda yadda.

* * *

 

 

    Lance is starting to suspect that Keith might be in shock. His pallor is closer to that of a human than the new lavender tone his skin has recently taken on. The bags under his eyes are prominent, but they can’t even begin to draw attention away from the distant, haunted look in his eyes. His overall demeanor is that of a man who is probably about to vomit, or pass out, or perhaps both.

    But of course, Lance doesn’t know Keith to be the kind of person who can _experience_ shock (or so he tells himself, because somehow Keith being on the verge of fainting isn’t the priority right now).

    It isn’t so much an argument as it is a debate, and for some reason Keith has yet to say his piece (most likely the shock), even though everyone else is practically yelling their opinions over his head. The noise level is not helped at all by the wailing of the baby that’s squirming around on Keith’s lap, big tears leaking from his enormous grey eyes as he alternates between looking frantically around the room and screaming at the top of his lungs.

    “None of us are qualified to raise a _child_ ,” Pidge is insisting, even though Coran has pointed out that he’s plenty qualified (his qualifications are vague and questionable at best).

    “Maybe some of the Hayettlings are still alive,” Hunk offers.

    Allura shakes her head, looking weary enough to rival Keith’s current state. “There’s no way. Their life force would have been sapped from them before the quintessence of the planet itself was drained.”

    “It’s going to look like something straight out of a horror film down there,” Coran adds.

    “Well, what’s the plan, then?” Lance asks, tentative. “I mean, we can’t dump a kid on a dead planet and expect him to survive. If he has to stay here in the castle, we need to start working out some kind of game plan, or…” He trails off. It’s hard to think clearly when the baby is still screaming like that.

    Shiro is apparently having a similar thought process. “Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere quieter, where we can actually think things through better.”

    Keith seems to snap out of whatever trance he’s in at that. At least long enough for him to balance the baby on his knees while he removes his chest armour and sets it on the floor by his feet. He bundles the baby up in his arms again and holds him closer, so that his ear is pressed right above his heart. The baby makes an inquisitive noise and the crying almost stops, but then it sniffs the air a couple times and its eyes find Keith’s face. One of its oversized ear flicks a couple times. “Aa-uh?” it says.

    Keith frowns, never breaking eye contact with the baby in his arms -- unaware that half of Team Voltron is staring at him in various states of confusion as he sways gently back and forth, still looking grumpy about something. He taps a finger against the baby’s cute little kitty-cat mouth and it starts sucking on his fingertip.

    “Oh,” is all Keith says. He seems surprised to find so many people watching him when he looks up again, but doesn’t mention it, just turns his attention back to the kid who’s gazing up and him in awe, like Keith is the entire universe.

    “W-well, it can’t stay here,” Pidge says, snapping out of it.

    Shiro sighs. “Pidge is right. We’re in the middle of a war. That’s no place for a child.”

    “Okay, so we need to find somewhere it will be safe, but what exactly are our options? Olkarion is gone. Earth isn’t a good place for an alien baby unless we want to turn it into a government experiment. A balmera could work, in theory, but do they have the resources to care for something that’s a completely different species?”

    Shiro is quick to put an end to Hunk’s rambling. “Surely there’s some sort of, I don’t know, intergalactic adoption agency or foster care system in place? Maybe we can drop it off to some kind of alien orphanage. Those have to exist, right Coran?”

    Coran, however, isn’t given an opportunity to respond.

    “Are you _kidding_ me?” Keith says, quiet but almost dangerous, and Shiro’s eye widen comically as he whips around to look at him again.

    “Keith, you can’t know for sure that--”

    “That _what,_ Shiro? That it’s going to be a bad experience for him? That it’ll be just as bad as on Earth? _You_ can’t know for sure that it would be okay, but it’s fine as long as he’s not around here, being a burden, _right?_ ” He’s _seething_ , that much is obvious, and it’s surprising to hear him speak to Shiro that way at all, but Lance is observant enough to see the underlying grief there -- the extra shine in his eyes, the way his pointed ears are turned back against the top of his head, the way he’s curled into himself and in doing so curled protectively around the Hayettling baby, like someone is going to try to steal him away.

    “Keith, I’m sorry,” Shiro says, and the sincerity resonates deep, but he ruins it by following up with, “but you have to see reason, here. If we try to keep--”

    “You know what?” Keith interrupts, voice so low it’s almost inaudible. “Fuck you.” He stands up and is gone from the room before anyone can react.

    “Well,” Coran tries after a long, tense silence. He clears his throat. “I think that perhaps Keith has had a very long and stressful day, and maybe we all have. Once everyone has had a break, we can...um.”

    “No,” Shiro shakes his head as he rubs a hand over his face as though he’s trying to scrub away the last five minutes of his life. He shrugs off the hand Coran places on his shoulder and sighs. “He’s in the right, here. It wasn’t fair of me to suggest something like that. I should have been more careful with my words.”

    “If I can add my two cents,” Lance says, and forces himself to ignore Allura’s question about what a cent is as he continues, “I don’t see a reason we _can’t_ keep him. Between the, what, _seven_ of us, it can’t be _that_ hard to keep one baby alive. And the castle can’t possibly be any more unsafe than the rest of the galaxy. I mean, yeah, we get attacked all the time, but Voltron is also here to protect the castle _all the time._ We’re not _everywhere else_ at once. We’re here, and if we kept a baby here, I dare say he’d be pretty damn safe, having Voltron to protect him.”

    Hunk breaks the pensive silence first. “You know, that’s a pretty good point.”

    “I’ll have to scrounge up whatever research we have on Hayettling kits. Mind you, it won’t be much, but it should help. Oh!” Coran claps his hands together suddenly. “There might still be formula in the old nursery. Mind, it’s ten thousand years old now, but I’m sure some of it has to have lasted.”

    Pidge follows him out with questions about the fact that the castle has a _nursery_ , and “what else is hiding in this goddamn spaceship”, leaving everyone else alone with a decidedly miserable-looking Shiro. Lance reaches a slow hand out to rest on his forearm. “I’ll go talk to him,” he assures, even though talking to Keith right now is likely going to be a toss-up between receiving the cold shoulder and having his head bitten off. Literally.

    Not one to back down from any kind of challenge, Lance squares his shoulders and sets off in the direction Keith disappeared to. There aren’t many options for places he may have gone, but Lance has a pretty good idea where the first place to look should be, considering the circumstances.

    Surprisingly enough, Black bows her head to allow him entry without hesitation. Keith is curled up behind the pilot’s seat, knees up, head down over his folded arms so Lance can’t see his face. Little spots of vibrant green fur are visible from within the cage of his body.

    “Keith?”

    One purple Galra ear tilts towards him, and he takes his time raising his head to look in Lance’s direction.

    Beyond the near-shock from earlier, Keith looks absolutely _wrecked_. It sends a pang of sympathy right through Lance’s already-weak heart, and while they’ve all been through a lot today, and they’re all mourning in some way, Lance knows that what troubles Keith is so much more visceral than that. He drops to his knees beside him.

    He’s not sure how to proceed from here, especially now that Keith looks like a strong breeze would shake him apart at the seams. “Can I … see him?” he asks, nodding at the little green bundle that’s clinging to Keith’s flight suit.

    “No,” Keith almost _growls_ , leaning out of Lance’s space.

    For a moment, he’s confused, but the reason for Keith’s reaction is easy enough to pinpoint. “Oh, no, _no,_ I’m not taking him, no -- I wouldn’t do that, Keith. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

    Keith appraises him openly for a moment, then relents, unfolding his legs and sliding his hands under the baby -- a kit, Coran had called him, and Lance can understand why that’s the term they use, with the cat-mouth and huge, droopy ears and big koala nose and the _fluff,_ holy shit. He hopes this kit stays this fluffy forever. He’s as soft as Lance used to imagine clouds would feel, before his teacher burst his bubble and informed him that clouds are made of water and would probably just feel wet and cold. One of Keith’s hands remains under the kit’s back even as Lance is supporting him, like he’s ready to snatch him back at a moment’s notice.

    “Wow. That is one of the cutest effing things I’ve ever seen.”

    Big grey eyes blink open and it takes a split second for the whole scene to change: the kit’s face crumples and his lets out an ear-splitting shriek, Keith all but yanks him back into his arms, and Lance is left floundering, wondering what he did wrong.

    Except the kit doesn’t even stop crying when Keith tries rocking him this time, or when he’s given a finger to chew on.

    Keith catches the inquisitive look Lance sends him, which is unfortunate because it seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. “He’s hungry,” Keith tries to explain, voice cracking, and when he starts to cry Lance isn’t stupid enough to think that’s the only reason why.

    He’s quick to wrap his arms around Keith, tuck his face into the crook of his neck, and _squeeze,_ mindful of the kit squished between them (who, if anything, actually quiets down a little when he’s dragged into the embrace). “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. If it helps, Shiro is really sorry, too. He realized what he said was insensitive, and even admitted that all his ideas are terrible and everyone should just listen to me from now on.”

    This, at the very least, gets him a snort, even though it’s kind of gross and wet with snot and tears.

    “No, really. He said, and I quote, ‘Lance is clearly the smartest person on this ship. I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about half the time.’ For realsies.”

    Keith actually _laughs,_ pulling out of the hug just enough to dry his eyes with his hands. “Y’know, that last part is actually pretty believable. He used to think feng shui was a type of mushroom. No one corrected him until he was almost twenty.”

    Then the kit kicks Lance right in the chest and starts screaming _louder,_ and they have _really_ got to do something to get him fed. But solid food is probably out of the question, and it’s not like they have any spare Hayettling mothers laying around who can feed a baby.

    He can barely hear the text alert over the sound of hungry baby, but when his pocket vibrates he’s relieved to find a message from his saviour Pidge, who’s sent a selfie to the group chat from what is presumably the nursery, with the caption, “ **JACKPOT**.”

    

    Most of Team Voltron is assembled in the kitchen while Coran reads aloud from the datapad on which he’s managed to compile all the castleship’s available information on Hayettling kits. Fortunately, it’s all pretty similar to human stuff, as far as they can tell -- there’s not nearly enough information available to ease any of their minds, and it doesn’t help that they really have no damn clue how old this kit is.

    “Wait, no, I have--” Keith stops trying to burp the kit (who is much quieter now that he’s tried various types of formula) and digs into one of the pouches of his utility belt -- none of them have even had a chance to change out of their armour. He produces some kind of card, flips it over to read the front. “Okay, um, do we know how dates worked on Hayett two-point-oh? And can anyone read this?”

    Pidge, of course, is the one to pluck the card from between his fingers and examine the writing accompanying the image of the kit he’s holding. “Oh! It has Altean and Galra translations. Convenient.”

    It takes her, Coran, and Hunk about fifteen doboshes, some confusing math, and several arguments to produce conclusive answers about the content of the card.

    “His name is Kah-Yih,” Coran tells them, turning the card over in his hands. “His parents names are listed as well.”

    “Kah-Yih,” Keith repeats, testing the name out for himself.

    “He’s about eight, maybe nine months old, if our conversions are accurate. That’s with the assumption that their ‘rotation’ count started exactly ten thousand years ago from the day we found Blue and that the seventy-ninth quintant of the rotation was nine months ago. Or, phoebs, I should say,” Pidge adds.

    “He’s way too small for nine months. Are you sure?”

    That sparks Lance’s curiosity more than all the conversion talk. “Well, hold up. How long do Hayettlings live, compared to humans? Maybe they age at a different rate.”

    Unfortunately for him, that stirs up a whole new conversion debate, which appears to be giving even Pidge a headache after enough time passes going back and forth with Coran over it.

    “But how long _precisely_ is an Earth year?”

    “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,” Lance offers, complete with a shit-eating grin, and Hunk sighs and smacks him on the back of the head.

    “Not helpful, Lance,” Pidge grumbles.

 

*

 

    Night One with an extra passenger on the castleship goes … alright, all things considered. Kah-Yih is so exhausted from his ordeal that he’s out like a light after a second bottle of formula (and after refusing to try any of the solid food that both Keith and Lance try to coax him to eat). The two of them take turns holding him while everyone works together to transport a bunch of crap from the actual nursery room to the closest empty bedroom to the paladins’ quarters.

    Well, everyone except Shiro, who is avoiding Keith much the same way Keith was avoiding him just a couple weeks ago. Allura takes a couple minutes to coo at the sleeping kit and get way more into Keith’s personal space than he’s visibly comfortable with, then gets right down to business doing all the heavy lifting for them.

    And here Lance and Hunk had been discussing disassembling the crib to transport it. Allura lifts it with one arm and scoops up a bunch of plush alien toys with the other. They scrub ten thousand years worth of dust off of everything, run the crib sheets and some clothes through the wash, think twice about removing the ‘lid’ of the crib (after all, it’s probably there for a reason), and then Kah-Yih is in a fresh diaper and sleeping soundly in his new room.

    Pidge gifts Keith a homemade baby monitor, complete with video feed, and then it’s _late_ and they all need to sleep.

    The baby monitor may have a video feed, but Lance definitely hears the door to the room beside his open and close at least four times throughout the night.

    

    At first, Lance is shocked to realize he woke up before Keith, but considering how many times the sound of Keith leaving his room woke him up last night, he’s probably busy catching up on some much-needed sleep.

    And Lance, being a helpful and dad-ly kind of person (in his opinion) who has several niblings, takes no issue with checking up on the kit on his way to the kitchen in the morning.

    Kah-Yih is already awake, gazing at his surroundings, and when Lance leans over the top of the crib -- though perhaps the addition of the extra protection makes it more of a cage -- to smile and wave at him, his expression crumples and he opens his mouth to let out a shrill scream.

    “Oh, no! No, no, no! Shhh!” He pops open the top of the crib and scoops him out, thinking of Keith, able to see and hear everything through the stupid baby monitor.

    God, if he sees this, he’s going to think Lance makes a terrible parent.

    He isn’t sure why that matters, but it does, and he desperately sways back and forth and shushes Kah-Yih to no avail.

    “Shit, uh…” He fumbles to turn off the baby monitor because he’s panicking too much to think, and why are all babies just so _loud?_ The universe hates him. He’s really great with kids, he swears. “What is it? Are you tired? No, duh, you just woke up, um--”

    And then he smells it.

    “Oh, no, you _didn’t._ ” Hesitantly, he maneuvers Kah-Yih’s bottom closer to his face and gives and experimental sniff.

    Oh, he _did._

    He’s just now remembered that bringing a baby onto the castleship came with a list of cons to counter the pros of ‘cute baby’ and ‘keeping Keith happy’.

    “I’m in hell,” he mutters as he marches them over to the change table that Allura also carried here with one hand, because she’s terrifying like that, and deals with the awful gift Kah-Yih has left for him.

    The smug bastard giggles and smiles and clings to his shirt with razor-sharp little needle-claws the whole way to the kitchen, and it’s _adorable,_ and Lance is _gone._ “Ugh, you are just the cutest little fluffy little munchkin in the world, what the heck; you’re so smelly, though. You’re so _cute. Ugh._ ”

    Kah-Yih smiles bigger and reaches up to pull on his hair.

    “Oh, god, I love you already,” he whimpers, and looks up as he enters the kitchen to find Shiro already there, leaning against the counter as he sips a cup of space coffee. “Oh, um,” he clears his throat, cheeks flushing pink.

    “Lance,” Shiro says, inclining his head in acknowledgement. He eyes the kit curiously for a couple seconds, then, “Is Keith--?”

    “He’s fine. Or, well … you might have to talk to him, but I don’t think he’s gonna be pissed at you forever.”

    The mug clinks on the countertop. Shiro’s moving in closer, craning his neck to get a better look at Kah-Yih, who’s latched onto Lance’s shirt like a koala. “Can I…?”

    “Oh, uh, yeah.” Lance tries to hand Kah-Yih off to Shiro, but only succeeds in tearing little holes in the fabric of his nightshirt. “Hey! You gotta let go, buddy, this isn’t fair.”

    Keith chooses this very dignified occasion to skid through the doorway, panting, ears rigid and trembling. “Oh,” he breathes, taking in the scene before him as he fights to catch his breath, then his gaze hardens. “What are you doing?”

    Shiro backs up, hands thrown up in surrender. “I’m not taking him, I swear; I’m not going to do that. I was wrong, yesterday. Lance is absolutely right about us keeping him here.”

    “Lance?” Keith still slinks over and positions himself strategically between the two of them as he reaches out to take Kah-Yih. This time the claws release instantly and he makes grabby-hands at Keith as he’s transferred into his arms. “What did Lance do?”

    Lance puffs up proudly. “I told you I’m the smartest person on this ship. You thought I was joking.”

    “That is a joke,” Keith says sincerely. He occupies himself with preparing a bottle for Kah-Yih, who is content to suck on his own hand for the time being.

     _“Ouch.”_

    “Keith, I’m serious,” Shiro says, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’d never do something like that if I wasn’t positive I had your support, and when I suggested it I was just trying to come up with options for us. I didn’t think it through, and I’m sorry.”

    Keith falters, set the bottle of powder down, and braces himself on the counter. “I know.” He sighs, then says, much more softly, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

    Shiro surprises them both by laughing. “That’s okay. I deserved it. And you should’ve seen Lance’s face -- he looked like he was going to shit himself.”

    “ _Wow,_ you are both bullies, I can’t believe this.” But Keith is laughing now, too, eyes bright and cheeks warm, and it’s like having the wind knocked out of him -- yet he can’t help but laugh with them.

    

 

    Being a paladin becomes a lot harder when a screaming infant is thrown into the mix.

    Not that Lance doesn't understand and even sympathize with Kah-Yih -- the kid is stressed, exhausted, confused, and probably misses home. He probably _really_ misses his mother. Lance can relate almost too well, but the difference is that Lance is grown and equipped to deal with overwhelming feelings like that.

    The child screaming and crying in his arms is not. So he _screams_ and _cries_ whenever Lance tries to put him down in his crib.  

    After about the fifth time he tries and fails to put Kah-Yih down to sleep, he's started begging him to just close his eyes and let them all go to bed. They've had such a long day, and Lance has sore muscles and a headache and several bruises from the intensive training they were forced to participate in this morning, and the twentieth hour of being awake has begun to creep past.

    He needs to rest, dammit.

    He starts humming as he rocks Kah-Yih but he just continues wailing and it's breaking Lance’s heart.

    Keith comes running in, only one arm through his shirt and water still dripping from his hair and ears, running in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. His pupils are wide and dark as he zeroes in on the screaming baby and drifts over to take him wordlessly from Lance’s arms.

Lance hovers over them for a few seconds as Keith starts trying the same methods as Lance, bouncing him slightly on his hip as he hums and shushes him. If Kah-Yih wasn't covered in fur, his face would probably be bright red from the effort of wailing so much.

    “I'm gonna try heating up a bottle for him,” Lance offers, and Keith nods, attention focused on wiping the tears streaming down Kah-Yih’s cheeks with his thumb.

    He slinks out of the room and into the kitchen,past the enormous stack of dishes Hunk left out to dry overnight and straight to the weird gelatinous Altean “fridge”. There are still five or so bottles of prepared formula ready to go for whenever they need it, so Lance sticks his hands into the freezing slime and grabs the nearest one.

    He sets it in the Altean “microwave” equivalent -- seriously, how does Hunk even maneuver this kitchen on a regular basis? -- and presses the timer. “Twenty-five, uh, ticks,” he tells it, and the teal antenna thing on top lights up. He folds his arms on the counter, rests his chin on top of them, and counts to twenty-eight seconds before the microwave whistles and the door almost smacks him in the nose.

    He shakes it up and hurries back down the hall, which is miraculously devoid of screeching.

    Keith is sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up slightly to support the weight of the child on top of him. He has one hand tangled in the tufty fur behind Kah-Yih’s ears and the other rubbing slow circles on his back, while Kah-Yih rests his head above Keith's heart and sucks his thumb, eyes half-lidded as he fights sleep.

    Keith is singing.

    It's higher in pitch than Lance would have expected, though Keith has been doing a lot of unexpected things lately. But he is unmistakably singing softly to Kah-Yih as he rocks ever so slightly side-to-side, a tune Lance isn't sure he's ever heard before.

    “ _Lily of the valley deck my garden walk_ ,” he sings, thumb stroking the edge of Kah-Yih’s oversized ear, which flutters slightly under the touch. “ _Oh, don’t you wish that you could hear them ring?_ ”

    There's an edge Lance has been teetering on that he wasn't even aware existed until this moment, when he feels himself slip and go flying off, because the look of quiet joy and adoration in Keith's eyes as he stares down at the sleepy toddler in his arms pushes him right over that edge, and the quiet moment he's accidentally intruding on sends it all crashing down at once. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been shifting closer and closer to a tipping point, or that he'd moved far beyond that equivalent of a silly little grade school crush where he'd just wanted to spend time around Keith and hug him and maybe kiss his cheek once in a while.

    His heart seems to literally stop in his chest for a moment when it happens; when he falls over the edge and his destination rises up to meet him with surprising force.

    Frozen in the doorway, watching Keith rock the child he accidentally adopted to sleep, Lance falls in love.

    Hard.

    It's like slipping in a puddle on a linoleum floor, except the end result feels pretty damn good.

    Oh god, Hunk is going to kill him because he isn't going to be able to shut up about this for weeks.

    Heart hammering in his chest, he takes a couple steps back and specifically tries to make a lot of noise as he approaches the door again. Keith looks up when he enters this time, and gives him a tiny, grateful smile. “Thanks,” he whispers, as Lance hands him the bottle. He holds it under Kah-Yih’s nose and the little kit’s eyes widen as he latches onto it with the hand he had in his mouth. The other hand reaches up and he starts twirling a strand of Keith's hair absently between his fingers. “I think he tired himself out crying like that.”

    Kah-Yih burbles something around the nipple of the bottle and tilts his head down to put his ear over Keith's heart again, eyes fluttering closed even as he keeps drinking. That fond look grows in Keith's eyes again and honestly, Lance doesn't know how he missed this in the first place. He's been pretty much hopelessly in love for months, and now all he wants is to hold on and never let go, keep Keith safe and warm and never let that little radiant smile fade away.

    “Um, are you okay with--? Uh, I mean, do you need anything else? I … I gotta pee so I'm gonna,” Lance stammers, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of his room.

    “Yeah, he's pretty much out.”

    “O-Okay. See you in the morning. Goodnight!”

    Keith looks at him funny, one ear twisting downward and the other pointing straight up, gaze boring into Lance's damn soul and he panics a little because maybe Keith can actually see into his soul, but then all he says is, “Yeah … goodnight.”

    Lance hightails it out of there, skidding to a stop at the entrance to Hunk’s room because he literally can't hold this in right now.

    Not the pee -- he doesn't actually have to pee at all.

    Hunk opens the door after a few seconds of incessant knocking, rubbing his eyes as he stares down at Lance in confusion. Lance doesn't wait for an invitation, just barges right in and makes himself comfortable.

    Hunk grumbles something about sleep schedules as the door slides shut behind him. “Um, what's up?” he asks, then yawns loudly.

    Okay, so Lance didn't really think this through. He hasn't actually figured out words for what he wants to say, and if he's being honest he isn't even sure what he wants to say. He just wants an outlet for the sudden overwhelming emotion filling him all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

    He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, scrambling for the words he needs. He can't stop picturing the incredibly soft and loving look on Keith's face while he cradled Kah-Yih in his arms, and he can't stop hearing him singing under his breath in a surprisingly pleasant melody. Except every time he thinks about it, it feels like he's falling all over again and like his stomach is filling with more and more butterflies.

    He may be grown and equipped to deal with something like homesickness or missing his mama, but this is a whole new onslaught of feelings that he has no clue how to handle.

    So he just turns his head to the side and starts crying, because he has literally no idea what else to do.

    “Woah, hey!” Hunk says, suddenly alert as he settles down right against Lance’s side and wraps an arm around him. “What's wrong?”

    Lance just presses his face into Hunk’s shoulder and let's himself have a good cry about the cute boy down the hall and what a good dad he is and how much Lance can't handle it. Hunk’s hand rubs soothing circles between his shoulder blades, warm and reassuring.

    “You're okay. It's okay,” he murmurs while Lance attempts to compose himself. “You wanna talk about it?”

    Lance nods and scrubs his tears away with his sleeve. He sniffles a couple times and nods again.

    “Hunk,” he starts weakly, then flops his head down against his shoulder again. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths and huffs out a strained laugh. “Oh my god, Hunk.” He continues to laugh, bordering on hysterical, shaking his head. “I love him so much. How did it take me this long to realize?”

    “Oh,” Hunk says, and then he's being held at arm's length and Hunk is looking him up and down, mouth quirking up in a tiny smile. “Oh,” he says again, “you didn't know?”

    “No, Hunk!” Lance screeches, somewhat quietly but probably not quietly enough for a castle full of sleeping people. “No, I did not know! How could I have known!? Oh my god.” He runs his hands through his hair then presses his palms over his eyes. “I mean, like, you know I thought he was pretty and whatever but that was a lot more envy than anything and yeah, I mean, I kinda wanted to cuddle him or whatever because hello, he seems like he could use some cuddles to get rid of that stick up his ass but, like...”

    He splutters for a few moments before continuing, throwing his hands out and almost smacking Hunk in the face. “It wasn't like _this_ ; I've never felt like this before but I know exactly what it is and for a second I thought it was going to kill me! He's doing things to my heart, Hunk! You and Pidge can joke all you want but I think I am seriously, for real, in love which means I am seriously, for real, screwed! Oh my god!” He flops backwards against Hunk’s pillows and throws an arm over his face.

    Hunk laughs quietly and pats the top of his head. “I think your heart is gonna be okay.”

    “It's not,” Lance grumbles, frowning. “I'm gonna make things awkward now. I just know it. But you should see him, Hunk. He's just … so cute. He's killing me. He's so cute, I want to kiss him, and he was _singing_ , Hunk! I'm gonna die!”

    “You're not going to die.”

    “Stop trying to make it better.”

    “Isn't that why you're here?”

    “...Fine. Keep trying to make it better.”

    Hunk pats his head again. “You've been in love with Keith for a long time, buddy.”

    “Why didn't you tell me?” he whines, squirming away from the touch to sulk on the other side of the bed.

    “We tried. You were in denial. I think you still kind of are.”

    Lance snorts. “I am definitely not in denial. I just cried over him. And his stupid pretty face and his stupid ears and stupid lullaby. Ugh.”

    “Well, maybe you should tell him.”

    Lance _blanches,_ shaking his head furiously. “Oh, no, oh god, how am I supposed to do _that?”_

    “Might I recommend, with flowers and a fancy dinner for two?” Hunk offers, getting a look in his eye that tells Lance he’s already planning a fancy romantic dinner menu, so he nips that in the bud.

    “He’s hardly a ‘fancy dinner for two’ kind of person. I bet his ideal date is, like, sparring or skydiving or something.” Skydiving would actually be a pretty cool date, except that their life as paladins has numbed them to experiences like that -- try falling through the sky _without_ the parachute, or almost being launched out of an airlock into the void of space, for starters.

    “Ask to spar with him, then.” Hunk just shrugs, like this is _simple_ or something.

    Lance whines and puts a pillow over his face. “I’m so screwed.”

 

* * *

 

 

    It hurts like rubbing sandpaper over a skinned knee when Sonja puts the burn ointment on his back. She’s a doctor, or she used to be before she retired, so Keith is confident she must now what she’s doing, but it _hurts like hell_ anyway.

    He bites his lip to stop himself from making a pained noise when she applies new bandages, then she’s patting his shoulder and smiling and telling him he’s all done for the day, and to rest up, even though that’s all he’s been doing since he left the hospital over a week ago. Then she says something that catches his attention.

    “Your buddy Cameron is coming home today.”

    He turns to face her, mouth forming the word ‘oh’, though he doesn’t make any sound. Cameron has been in the hospital longer than he was, because he’s a lot smaller than Keith and the same amount of hurt is a lot bigger on him. They’re the only two who survived the house fire, thanks in part to Keith waking up when he did.

    He presses his lips together in a thin line to hide the smile and nods vigorously. Sonja just smiles more at him.

    “You can come with me to pick him up if you’d like.”

    He gets to learn how to install a car seat, and he gets to meet some of the doctors and nurses who helped him when he was brought to the hospital, and though he doesn’t speak to them he’s polite enough to shake their hands and nod to acknowledge their greetings. And then he gets Cameron back, and he can’t tell for sure but he thinks Cameron is happy to see him again. It feels good.

    He actually eats most of the dinner Sonja cooks that night, but the novel feeling of joy doesn’t last forever.

    After all, if Cameron got hurt once while living with him, who’s to say it won’t happen again? What if something happens to Sonja? She’s a nice lady, and she wouldn’t deserve it if she got hurt because Keith got too attached.

 

    Today is the twenty-third of October. Keith turns twelve today, which is much more mature than eleven. And much more independent. Keith thinks he’s capable of being plenty independent now that he’s grown up so much, and he thinks that maybe he doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to take care of him, especially not if that puts them at risk. He’s almost completely healed by now. Sonja only puts one tiny strip of bandages across the deepest burn by his shoulder blade before she goes out shopping.

    She offers to take Keith, but he shakes his head and makes a point of selecting a book to read from the living room shelf. Cameron goes with her. Keith waves goodbye as the baby is carried out the front door.

    Does Sonja know he turns twelve today? Does she care?

    She doesn’t _need_ to care, but twelve feels something like an accomplishment after the number of times he’s fully expected to die. Maybe just an acknowledgement wouldn’t hurt.

    His belongings are all packed into his knapsack, minus a couple articles of clothing and some school books he figured could be sacrificed since he isn’t planning on going back there.

    He leaves the shiny new running shoes Sonja bought him when she saw the sorry state of his old ones, because he knows shoes are expensive and he doesn’t deserve something nice from her if he isn’t going to stick around. The old shoes require a couple pieces of duct tape and some TLC before he can get on the road, but once the soles are firmly attached he sets out in the direction he remembers downtown being, where people like to live outside and sit by fires together at night.

    His shoe falls apart when he’s trying to outrun a cop about five hours later, and he hits the pavement _hard_ and slides just enough to open wounds on his hands, knees, and face. He wants to be pissed at Sonja for calling the police to hunt him down but he knows she meant well, even though it’s Elena who picks him up at the police station with the stuff he left behind in her hand, plus a card and balloon.

    They’re from Sonja.

    Maybe she did care.

    He blew it by running away, though.

 

 

    Miguel and Katarina are strict, but not the way foster parents have been. They give Keith a curfew, and once he starts class at his new school they insist his time spent in their home is conditional on him receiving good grades and following their rules.

    The school has converted back to the K-8 model because kids in the district were scoring so poorly, and even then Keith is placed in the “hopeless case” class. Probably because they expect to have problems with him.

    They wouldn’t be wrong.

    They manage to chase away three teachers over the course of a month, and the fourth seems like he’ll be easy to get rid of, until he just _doesn’t leave._ They’re baffled. They’ve tried everything. They’ve trashed the classroom twice, they’ve broken windows, they’ve locked him out, they’ve all skipped class at once -- nothing deters Mr. Byrd from showing up every day and trying to teach them like this is all normal.

    A couple kids throw eggs at him and make bird jokes, but he just pulls a towel out of a drawer in his desk, cleans himself off, and continues his lesson.

    Keith is _floored._ So is everyone else, apparently.

    He puts his limited artistic skills to good use before class one day, drawing Mr. Byrd as ridiculous-looking caricature of a goose with a human face, and he’s enjoying himself as he slaves away over the blackboard until the laughter from the rest of the class cuts off abruptly.

     _Busted._

    He drops the chalk onto the floor and shuffles towards the door, head bowed, because he knows the drill by now.

    “Where do you think you’re going?” Mr. Byrd asks as he sets his bags down on his desk.

    “To the principal’s office,” Keith mumbles. He’s a little bit worried about getting kicked out of this school, because he gets along alright with some of the kids in this class, and that’s a rare experience.

    “Why?”

    He looks up at Mr. Byrd, shocked, then points at the vandalized blackboard.

    Mr. Byrd _laughs,_ for some reason. “You think I’m going to send you to the principal for _art?”_

“Ummm.”

    “No, have a seat. You’ve got a keen talent there, Keith,” he adds, stroking his chin as he admires the bubble-lettered “MR. BIRD” scrawled under the drawing. “Very nice. Anyway, your papers about personal role models are due today, so let’s get those on my desk before we start.”

    He doesn’t erase the drawing until the end of the day, working around it while he writes so as not to disturb Keith’s art. Keith starts to think that, maybe, Mr. Byrd isn’t so bad.

 

 

  Keith is still attending the same school as before even though he’s in a new foster home, and he thanks his lucky stars for that. Mr. Byrd actually takes the time to sit down and talk to Keith, to learn about his interests and what he wants to do -- something his current foster parents still haven’t made time for.

    Keith is hesitant at first, but eventually tells him all about his dream of joining the Galaxy Garrison and going to space, which Mr. Byrd supports fully and encourages him to work towards.

    He takes time out of his weekends to personally tutor Keith to get his grades back up. He buys him sketchbooks and quality drawing utensils so he can practice art.

    It concerns him that he’s starting to wish his teacher would just adopt him, and it isn’t that his foster parents aren’t alright -- distant, maybe, a little snippy sometimes, but he’s had worse. But there’s something _better_ in reach, and despite telling himself not to get too attached, he finds himself looking forward to seeing Mr. Byrd at school on weekdays and on Saturdays at a little cafe in town for tutoring sessions.

    He makes good use of the art supplies, producing a variety of pieces to share with Mr. Byrd: senseless comics that are only funny because he’s twelve and his sense of humour is underdeveloped, big swirling abstract paintings, the night sky in every colour of ink he owns.

    The day he spills an ink bottle on the living room carpet, it feels like the world crashes down around him. He doesn’t _know_ what will happen, and somehow that’s more terrifying than just quietly accepting the ass-kicking coming his way. Getting kicked out seems highly probable, but getting kicked out means he might move schools again, if they don’t find him a foster home in this district.

    Instead of waiting around to experience the consequences, he does something that’s quickly becoming a habit -- he runs.

    This time, the police find him shivering in the cold behind the cafe he goes to for tutoring sessions, afraid to go inside in case he’s caught and afraid to go somewhere else for fear of becoming hopelessly lost.

 

 

    This foster father dislikes him immediately. He can tell, because the moment Elena is out of earshot, he calls Keith “another damn immigrant kid” and gives him such a disdainful look that even Keith, socially inept as he is, understands its meaning.

    His wife smacks his arm and huffs at him. “Oh, shut up. At least we’re getting paid to cook some meals for the damn immigrant kids and make sure they get to school or whatever.”

    It’s only been a week when his foster father hits him for the first time, and he should have seen it coming but it’s been awhile since anyone’s attacked him outright like that. Besides, it’s his fault for taking too long to answer a question.

    It isn’t until a week later, when a glass is thrown at his head and he’s left frozen in the wake of glass shards exploding right beside his head that he caves and calls Elena.


	5. Coming Up For Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll edit this later -- I need to go to work soon.

 

* * *

 

 

    The _only_ reason Keith is up and about right now is the kit that’s clocked out with a death-grip on his shirt. He certainly _wasn’t_ sleeping peacefully like this ten minutes ago, but a long walk and a warm bottle work wonders.

    No sane person should be awake at this hour. It’s nearing five o’clock Earth time, which is about two hours from the time they’re “supposed” to wake up and three to four hours until breakfast is (typically) ready. Keith is awake because, well -- crying baby.

    Pidge is awake because … Keith doesn’t know.

    He isn’t being nosy on purpose, it’s just that he can hear her screwing around on her laptop and muttering to herself as he passes by. He tries not to think much of it, but then the sound of  _power tools_ follows him down the corridor, and he whispers, “What the fuck?” to himself, moving a little bit faster to put Kah-Yih back to bed.

    Pidge looks like hell and garbage when she opens the door, taking a couple seconds to focus on him, then setting her glasses straight and squinting at him some more. “What the eff time is it, dude?” she says, eloquently, patting down the unsalvageable disaster that her hair has become (it springs right back up, sticking completely upright in some places where she’s clearly been tugging on it in frustration).

    “Late,” he tells her. “Or, maybe early.”

    A couple seconds pass, during which time Pidge is looking increasingly irate (or maybe exhausted), and Keith isn’t sure how to proceed so he folds his arms over his chest and glances around at the room behind her. He was right about the power tools. She’s building _something_ , but he couldn’t hazard a guess as to what, right now.

    When he accidentally makes eye contact with her, she mirrors his body language, raising an eyebrow at him.

    “I just … I noticed you were awake, and it’s really late, so I wanted to,” he clears his throat, “To make sure everything is okay.” Keith is a lot of things, but downright stupid isn’t one of them. He can see that they’re all still a little bit _off_ from what happened a couple days ago, and Pidge, for all her wit and wile and tough exterior, is no exception.

    The exhaustion becomes somehow more pronounced, but there’s a tinge of fondness in the way she purses her lips and sets her shoulders back. “Well, what’re _your_ thoughts?”

    “...Huh?”

    “ _Is_ everything okay?”

    He’s not a hundred percent sure what she’s on about, but his judgment on the matter brought him this far. Between the dark circles and her declining inclination to make an appearance at meals (or any other time of day), and the junk pile that is her bedroom (nothing new, but this seems worse than usual), and the way she kind of twitches like she’s overloaded her system with caffeine (or, god forbid, something more potent), he can’t exactly argue with instinct on this point. “No,” he decides, and she seems to consider that, as if there’s anything to _be_ considered, nodding pensively at him a few times before clicking her tongue and taking a step back into the chaos of her room.

    “Wanna see what I’m working on?”

    “Should be _sleep_ ,” he chides, but follows her in nonetheless.

    It takes about three minutes for the breakdown to start, and Keith could see it coming a mile away, but he still manages to be unprepared. Pidge has designed and built several dozen variations of the same early warning detection system for incoming objects (ships, asteroids, a _flea_ , you name it), each almost identical to the last but “just a little better, you know, just in case, I don’t want to miss _anything._  I don’t want us to have a repeat of … last time”. With her own armour, she demonstrates how to attach and use the device she just finished putting together -- version 56 or something ridiculous like that.

    “Have you been sleeping at _all?_ ” he asks, interrupting her explanation of the new and improved range.

    “Well…” she starts, eyes darting around the room like the correct answer is hidden somewhere in all that scrap metal.

    “ _Pidge.”_

    She sighs, sliding her glasses off her face and rubbing the little red marks on the bridge of her nose before speaking. “All those people _died._ We were supposed to protect them, and we couldn’t even do that. Now they’re dead. All of them. A _whole planet.”_

    It’s about that point that her bottom lip wobbles and Keith needs to find an appropriate reaction, and _fast._

    Texting “ _SOS: Pidge???”_ to Hunk (and Lance, in case maybe he’s awake) seems like a good enough course of action.

    Somehow, that actually _works,_ which is more than Keith even expected. Hunk’s only wearing one slipper and his shirt is buttoned up wrong when he stumbles into the room, but Pidge is just starting to actually cry (she’ll later blame sleep deprivation, surely) and Keith sends him a helpless look.

    “What’s wrong?” Hunk demands, fumbling to tie his hair back out of his eyes as he makes a beeline for Pidge. She cradling the device in her arms with tears streaming silently down her cheeks, and Keith’s heart breaks a little -- he can understand, he can _absolutely_ empathize with her plight, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch her fall apart over it.

    “Hayett,” he answers for her, and that’s all Hunk needs.

    He tries to tune out the soft reassurances Hunk offers, tries to keep himself from looking as Hunk removes the as-yet-unnamed device from her grip and gathers her up in his arms, because it seems soft and intimate and not something he can be a part of, but then Hunk is dragging him into their hug, and he freezes up but Hunk just squeezes him and says, “I know, this sucks,” and damn if he isn’t right about that much. Keith makes sure he can get his arms around Pidge, too, because she needs it right now.

    The door opens again and Lance’s hideous green face mask makes an appearance -- when he sees that there’s no immediate danger and all that’s happening is a group hug, he visibly relaxes and jumps in to hug them all, ruffling Pidge’s hair (making an even bigger disaster of it). “That wasn’t our fault,” he offers, and Keith supposes it must be pretty obvious that they’re all just now reaching the breaking point of the guilt from failing to protect a literal entire planet of people.

    He tries to let that guilt drain away in the midst of a much-needed hug, where Lance’s arm is wrapped securely over his shoulders and Hunk’s hand presses him closer to them all with a gentle pressure on his lower back, but he’s stuck remembering that Hayettling kit who is sleeping soundly just a couple rooms away, and the desperation of a mother who understood the cruelty of the universe she was leaving him alone in.

    “Hey,” Lance says suddenly -- Keith can hear the mischief in his voice, and thinks for a second that now is really not the time to be fucking around. “We’re _all_ hugging Keith.”

    For some reason that makes Hunk laugh, and even Pidge wipes her eyes dry as she giggles at him, and oh god do they have some kind of shitty inside joke about Keith and hugs? It’s not his fault he’s terrible at asking for physical affection.

    Maybe it is, but that’s not the point.

    “Mission success,” Hunk whispers, eyes alight, and -- what?

    “What?”

    “Nothing,” Lance says. “Hug us more.” He wraps _both_ arms around Keith and then apparently tries to suffocate him, which results in Keith thumping him on the back and gasping for air while Hunk and Pidge exchange conniving looks like he can’t _see them doing that right in front of him_.

    They’re scheming, he just knows it, but he’s really too goddamn tired to do anything about it right now.

    “We should…” He sighs, shoving Lance away once the grip on his ribcage loosens (Lance makes a sound like he’s been punched in the throat when he topples over onto the floor -- Keith ignores him). “We should probably have a meeting about what happened on Hayett in the morning. With everyone else present.”

    “Great!” Pidge says. She looks better, like crying helped to flush part of the problem out of her system. “I can finish making improvements to the last prototype, and then maybe by tomorrow we’ll have a final--”

    “No,” Keith and Hunk say at the exact same time, and Pidge glares at them because she knows what’s coming next.

    “You need to sleep.”

    Hunk nods. “Like, right now. No arguments.”

    Keith is about to lend a hand with the task of confiscating all of the potential distractions laying around her room (there are a _lot_ ), but the distant sound of Kah-Yih crying snags his attention away from the job. He sighs and hauls himself to his feet to go deal with _that._

    “I got it!” Barrelling past, Lance shoves the door open and swings around to point at him. “ _You_ need to sleep, too. Right now. You look like a zombie.”

    “Wow, screw you, too.”

    “Go to bed. Hunk’s got this. He’s our official Pidge-handler. Right, buddy?”

    “You make me sound like a zoo animal,” Pidge grumbles from under an array of comforters and pillows.

    “I got it,” says Hunk, looking smug as he balances an armful of potentially-distracting items to be kept out of Pidge’s reach until she’s functional again. “Go get some rest.”

    At least, Keith thinks as his head hits the pillow, he doesn’t have to figure out how to keep the last living Hayettling alive all by himself.

 

*

 

    “Y’know, you’re not as purple as before.”

    “Huh?” Keith drags his attention away from the battle to force puréed vegetables into Kah-Yih’s mouth. They’re both covered in stinky orange-ish goop and Keith is one more dodged spoonful of food from giving up entirely and letting the kid just drink formula for the rest of his life.

    Lance shrugs, taking his hands out of his jacket pockets to reach for the spoon. “Well, you were a more _purple-y_ purple a couple weeks ago.”

    “‘ _P_ _urple-y_ purple’?”

    “Yeah, ‘purple-y purple’.” Lance shoos him out of the chair parked in front of Kah-Yih and Keith doesn’t even protest; he’s been worn down _that much._ “But now it’s like it’s … fading? Like it’s closer to the colour your skin was _before_ than when you went full Galra.” He makes the mistake of giving the baby food a taste-test, immediately spitting it on the floor. “What the cheese?! What _is_ this?”

    Keith makes a noncommittal noise and flicks an ear at him. “Some kind of space concoction Hunk made up. I’m just the guy who tries to make the kit eat. I don’t know the details.”

    “It takes like Satan’s gym socks.”

    “Really? I thought it tasted okay.”

    He gives Lance about ten minutes of attempting to convince Kah-Yih that real food is good before throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Are you kidding?! You cry because you’re hungry but you refuse to eat whatever we give you. Ugh, god.” He scrubs a hand over his heavy eyelids, “I need a vacation.”

    “You need a nap.”

    “A vacation where I can take a really long nap.”

    “Solid compromise.”

    Kah-Yih whimpers and starts crying again, because he hasn’t eaten yet this morning and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to change his mind about the food any time soon.

    Defeated, Keith digs a bottle of formula out of the fridge-thing (gel coolant suspension chamber, but who’s counting) and sticks it in the microwave, momentarily dozing off with his elbows on the counter.

    “Shh, yeah, that’s okay. Everything is alright. C’mon, go get Keith.” He blinks a couple times and turns his head to see Lance place Kah-Yih, who is now only babbling and struggling to be set down, on the floor by his feet. Immediately, Kah-Yih is crawling towards him, probably after the bottle he knows is coming his way any second.

    He can’t help but smile at the idea that maybe Kah-Yih also wants _him_ , and that given the option he’d choose to crawl to Keith over most other people.

    The kit latches onto a chair leg and hauls himself upright, which has been happening a lot lately. He likes to stand up and climb on things, so Keith doesn’t bat an eye.

    Until, of course, he locks his gaze on Keith and slides one foot towards him.

    “...Keith,” Lance says, but Keith doesn’t respond, just spins around to stare in shock as Kah-Yih lets go of the chair and takes another step towards him.

    “Keith, holy shit.”

    He’s still too stunned to say anything. He just drops to his knees and opens his arms to beckon Kah-Yih forward. The kit smiles and teeters through a couple more steps before falling into Keith’s waiting arms, and Keith gathers him up close to his chest and hugs him, whispering about how proud he is and unable to contain his excitement.

    “Did we just witness his first steps!?” Lance all but screams from behind his Punk-phone as he films the interaction.

    Kah-Yih contents himself with the bottle of warm formula while Lance replays the video about four hundred times and asks Keith over and over to confirm that those really were his first real, actual steps. “Yeah, Lance. He hasn’t done that before. Not while he’s been here, at least.”

    

 

    It takes a nap (while Kah-Yih is entertained by Pidge and Hunk) for the weight of the conversation he had with Lance this morning to sink in.

    He doesn’t knock, just bursts into Lance’s room with his hair sticking out from his ponytail a hundred different ways and his eyes flashing. “What do you mean, I’m _not as purple?”_

 

*

 

    “I’ll monitor your quintessence levels more frequently from now on,” Allura assures, finally removing her hand from his sternum. He relaxes once the contact is gone. “Right now you’re roughly at the same levels as myself, but it’s an improvement from your levels immediately following the exposure to the raw quintessence. Fortunately, the energy seems to be draining away on it’s own.”

    “And, by extension, making me … less Galra?”

    “Yes, in a sense. Your genetics are just as ‘Galra’ as they’ve always been -- the quintessence exposure just forced dormant genes to activate, which made you develop some of the physical characteristics of your Galra heritage.”

    Coran pokes his head out from the cabinet he’s rummaging around in to add, “Although, some traits may linger, now that those genes have been activated. Hard to say now which, if any, but once your levels are closer to what they should be we’ll have a better idea of what to expect.” He disappears again for a second, then emerges carrying a couple vials and a needle, and Keith recoils immediately.

    “What the hell is that for?” he asks, less concerned about the idea of ‘lingering traits’ and more concerned with the imminent possibility of getting poked with needles. His memories associated with needles are far from _fond._

    “Blood work,” Coran says, chipper as ever, and that’s where Keith puts his foot down.

    He can handle Allura putting her hands all over him even when he hates being touched by people he isn’t entirely comfortable with. He can handle the dozens of photographs of all his physical features that were taken to be placed in a documentation folder. He can even handle Lance sitting by in the corner pretending he isn’t being nosy about all this, and like it isn’t his fault Keith was forced into the med bay in the first place.

    No one else is allowed to stick him with needles when he’s even remotely coherent, ever again.

    “No,” he says firmly, but Coran waves him off and starts prepping the vials for the procedure. Keith bares his teeth, still sharp, and repeats himself. _“No.”_

    “Well, why not?” Coran asks, clearly baffled by Keith’s outburst.

    Having been silent for longer than Keith thought possible, Lance finally pipes up from the corner he’s taken up a sentry position in. “Aww, is wittle Keith afwaid of needles?”

    Keith’s ears flick back flat against his head and he can _feel_ the way his eyes flare yellow as he glares at Lance. “I’m done here,” he hisses, snatching his jacket off the chair he draped it over and storming out of the room.

 

    Shiro makes meaningful eye contact with Lance when he relays the incident to him later. Meaningful, but Lance is entirely unable to decipher the _actual meaning._ Shiro just looks weary, and maybe a little guilty, but mostly concerned. “I’m not surprised,” he says, shrugging as he turns away. “He punched the doctor at the Garrison who was trying to get him up-to-date on his vaccinations. Not the easiest thing to explain away.”

 

*

 

    “Aaahbuh-buh-buh-buh-buh.” Kah-Yih crosses his eyes, sticks out his tongue, and blows a loud raspberry, then claps his hands and laughs loudly. He's been wandering in circles babbling to himself for at least half an hour, and Keith filmed the first ten minutes or so before settling down on a couch to watch him do whatever the hell he's doing. Sometimes leaving the kit to his own devices produces the most interesting results (provided that someone is still supervising him).

    “Buh-buh-buh?” He looks inquiringly up at Keith, nose wrinkled and one ear turned downwards while the other sticks straight up. It's adorable. Keith bites back a grin. “Buh … bah? Ba … b-aww.” He crosses his eyes again like he's trying to watch his mouth form the sounds, and Keith leaps out of his seat, whipping his communicator out of his fanny pack again to keep recording.

    He's trying to say a new word.

    And if Keith had to guess, he's looking for a ball. There are about a hundred of those scattered across the common room (he should probably get to cleaning up in here), so he drops down to his knees and tries to help the process along. “Ball?”

    Kah-Yih’s face lights up and both oversized ears flick straight upwards as Keith reaches out and picks up a ball.

    He grabs at it and squeals with delight, then makes a series of excited “b" sounds and hugs it to his chest.

    “Ball,” Keith tries again.

    “Baww.”

     “Okay, close. Ball.”

    The door whooshes open somewhere behind him and Lance strolls in, smelling like one of Hunk's modified food goo recipes. “Hey, lunch will be ready soon, do you--?”

    Kah-Yih squeals again and bolts towards Lance, ball still clutched in his hand.

    He trips almost immediately over one of the stuffed dolls from the old nursery. It's like everything is happening in slow motion as Keith lunges forward to catch him, heart seizing, but he's just a split second too late and Kah-Yih's head smashes against the edge of the table.

    “ _Oh_ mygod,” Keith gasps, words blurring together into one as Kah-Yih crumples to the floor and starts screaming. Tossing his communicator aside, he scoops the kit into his arms and cradles him there, prying his bloodied hands away from his forehead. “Oh shit,” he says again, looking fearfully up at Lance, who rushes over and examines Kah-Yih's head while the kit wails, tears and snot pouring down his face.

    “Okay -- _hey_.” His fingertips brush Keith's cheek and Keith glances up at him. He has no damn clue what to do in this situation, he realizes.

     He does, somewhere, but he's too overwhelmed to figure it out. Oh god, he's freaking out.

    “Don't freak out,” Lance supplies helpfully. “Hey!” His whole hand is cradling Keith's cheek now. “Don't freak out. He's fine. Head wounds bleed a lot no matter what. If you panic you'll make him cry. You have to calm him down. Okay?”

    Keith sucks in a breath, slowly, and nods as he exhales, wrapping his arms more tightly around his crying kit. “Okay.”

    “Good. I'll get a first aid kit.”

    Keith nods again and Lance disappears through the door.

    Kah-Yih is starting to gasp for air from the force with which he's screaming, so Keith lifts him to rest an ear over his heart, which is probably pounding anyway, and begins to rub his back. “Shh, it's okay,” he soothes, trying to keep his voice light and steady. “You're fine! You just tripped, is all.” The bleeding has already begun to slow, but there's still some soaking into the front of his shirt.

    Kah-Yih doesn't stop crying. Keith closes his eyes and tries to figure out how to calm him. Would singing help? He's not sure he can even do that right now.

    He just wills Kah-Yih to stop, because it's breaking his heart.

    A tiny rumble rolls through his chest and he jumps, almost dropping Kah-Yih. What the hell was that?

    It sounded like…

    He tries to make the noise again, and manages with surprising ease to produce another small purr. Kah-Yih pauses, blinks up at him, then his face scrunches up and he clutches his head again.

    “No, no, it's okay!” With little effort, he draws the purring out into a continuous gentle rumble, watching the way Kah-Yih's ears both angle themselves towards the sound. He stops squirming almost immediately, and then his face relaxes.

    Keith cannot believe he didn't know about this before. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

    Kah-Yih smiles at him and he involuntarily begins to purr louder.

    “I didn't know you could do that!” Lance cries, and Keith realizes with a start that he's been standing in the doorway.

    He flushes a darker purple, purr faltering and then cutting off abruptly. “I didn't either! It just kind of happened!” Kah-Yih, clearly not pleased with the loss of comfort, makes a discontented noise and begins to squirm again.

    “Keep going,” Lance urges.

    He's shocked again by how easy it is. The effect on Kah-Yih is immediate; his little clawed fingers curl into Keith's shirt as he burrows his head against his chest. The bleeding has almost stopped completely.

    He smiles down at the toddler and purrs louder again.

    When he risks a glance up at Lance, he's met with an indiscernible expression as Lance stares back. Keith cocks an ear at him and he snaps back to attention, holding the first aid kit in front of him and walking around behind Keith.

    “Can you move him so his chin is on your shoulder? It’ll be easier for me to deal with his head that way.” Lance kneels behind him and sets the first aid kit down by Keith’s folded legs.

    He nods and very carefully maneuvers Kah-Yih to sit upright, then tucks his chin down against his shoulder and purrs even louder to keep him calm. The vibrations run all through his chest and shoulders, increasing in strength when Kah-Yih chirps softly in confusion.

    “Hey, boo,” Lance coos at him, and Kah-Yih giggles and paddles his feet, reaching a hand out toward Lance’s face. Keith continues to rub his back just in case he hasn’t completely recovered from his incident. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

    The smell of disinfectant assaults Keith nostrils and he grimaces. “He isn’t gonna like that,” he murmurs over his shoulder, voice fluctuating strangely in time with the purring.

    “That’s what you’re here for, right?”

    “Yeah.” Keith presses the palm of his hand more firmly against Kah-Yih’s upper back and nuzzles his chin against the side of his head.

    “You ready?” Lance’s face appears in his peripheral vision.

    Keith nods. Lance’s face vanishes and shortly thereafter Kah-Yih jerks and whimpers in his arms. “Hey, shh, it’s okay.” He whispers, bouncing the kit gently a few times. Kah-Yih tries to turn his face downward, against Keith’s throat, but Lance holds him by the chin and mutters an apology while he holds his head still and wipes the cut clean.

    “Sorry, sorry,” Keith says when Kah-Yih’s claws dig into his shoulder and he tries to flinch back again.

    After several minutes spent desperately trying to keep Kah-Yih calm, Lance finally sighs and reaches into the first aid kit again. “Okay, blood’s all gone. I’ll just put some gauze there for now and we’ll take him to see Coran, okay?”

    Keith nods and hugs Kah-Yih tight against his chest. “Think he’ll be okay?”

    Lance snorts. “Yeah. Toddlers are basically indestructible. Nothing can stop them. Right, Kah-Yih?”

    Kah-Yih makes a tiny _prrp_ sound, ears flicking up and angling towards Lance at the sound of his name.

    “Yeah, you.” Lance swiftly tapes a piece of gauze to the fur around the cut before he can react, then leans down to kiss his forehead. “Not so bad, eh?”

    With the all-clear, Keith shifts around in an attempt to haul himself to his feet, but struggles between the awkward position and the additional weight of a child in his arms. Lance catches him by the elbows and helps him up.

    “Thanks.”

    “No problem. And, you’re still, uh…” Lance lets go of him and gestures vaguely at his chest. “Purring?”

    Keith blushes again and forces himself to stop. Kah-Yih is calm now, playing absently with a strand of Keith’s hair and giving his best shot at a reciprocal purr, so he smooths a hand between his ears and kisses his cheek. “Uh, yeah … I think that’s what that is,” he admits sheepishly.

    “Huh. Cool.” Lance grins at him and turns away quickly to pick up the first aid kit. “Is that like a normal Galra thing?”

    Keith shrugs. “I know about as much as you do. It’s not exactly like the Blade would have explained anything to me.”

    “Oh.” Lance’s grin turns into a frown. “Uh, c’mon, let’s go find Coran and see if he can check out Kah-Yih’s head for us.”

  
  


    “So, do you also like, purr when you’re happy?” Hunk asks as soon as he sits down at the table with his breakfast.

    Keith whips his head around to glare at Lance. “You _told_ him?!” he growls, and Lance’s spoon clatters to the table as he raises his hands in surrender.

    Rather than look at Keith, he turns to scowl at _Hunk_ , ears red. “ _Dude_. Confidentiality? What the quiznak?!”

    “You were _talking about me_?” Keith reiterates, voice rising in pitch.

    Lance’s ears just turns more red, and Hunk looks enormously guilty.

    “Um,” Pidge interrupts, raising one hand. “Why am I out of the loop, here?”

    “Trust me, you’re not the only one.” Shiro crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. “What’s this about ... _purring_?”

    Keith groans and slumps over the table, hiding his face in his arms.

    “Oh, that’s a relatively common trait among the Galra,” Coran explains, like Keith isn’t dying of embarrassment before his eyes. “Particularly Galra possessing mammalian features. It’s practically nonexistent among reptilian and avian populations and the like, though all races possess characteristics unique to their physiology, and as genes became mixed traits began to cross over. But purring, nesting, and other mammalian habits are very specific to Keith’s apparent heritage.”

    Three voices pipe up at once.

    “Please stop talking,” Keith whimpers, at the same time Hunk demands for Coran to continue, and Lance shoots him a confused look.

    “What do you mean by ‘nesting’?”

    “Stop,” Keith tries again, and Coran sends him a pitying look.

    “Well, of course, I’d hate to make anyone uncomfortable,” Coran says apologetically.

    “Wait,” Pidge says suddenly. “ _A_ _vian_ Galra?”

    Keith nods when Coran looks at him inquiringly, and the advisor launches into an explanation about the near-extinction of the avian race of Galra following the loss of their natural habitat. He sighs and refills Kah-Yih’s bowl, beyond bothering with the lost cause that is keeping food out of the kit’s fur.

    When he turns back to his own food, Lance is staring intensely at him, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

    “What’s ‘nesting’?” Lance mouths at him.

    Well, he doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t really know anything about himself anymore, it would seem.

    But he has a pretty solid idea about what it means, if the absurd amount of pillows and blankets that have accumulated on his bed since his initial transformation are any indication.

    He just shrugs and tries to prevent his ears from flattening with embarrassment. He has _got_ to do something about that thing. Some of that stuff isn’t even _his_.

    Lance didn’t seem to notice that he’s made a habit of stealing his bedding and replacing it with fresh linens from his closet, but eventually Lance’s closet is going to look just as empty as his own and then he’ll have a _real_ problem.

    Also, sleeping with Kah-Yih in the same bed is probably a weird part of that … characteristic. He feels better when his kit is in the room with him. Kah-Yih seems to prefer the “nest” to his crib anyway.

 

*

 

    It’s like Kah-Yih's just been waiting patiently for him -- he’s wide awake, staring out into the room from his crib; he flaps his arms and squeals with delight when Keith enters the room.

    This is just a routine for him, now, like sitting with Coran during their daily training exercises, or having breakfast in the morning. He’s caught on pretty quickly.

    “Yeah, yeah,” Keith rolls his eyes but can’t help the fond smile as he scoops his squirming kit into his arms. “Time for bed.”

    Kah-Yih digs his finger and toes into the oversized shirt Keith is using as pyjamas and settles down with his ear over Keith’s heart, already falling asleep. His eyelashes flutter a few times as he lets out a content sigh and then he’s out, and Keith hasn’t even made it back to his room yet. That’s gotta be a new record.

    “Number four,” a voice greets as he’s hurrying down the corridor, and Keith nearly jumps out of his skin.

    “Jesus, Coran!” he hisses, unwrapping his arms from where he’d grabbed Kah-Yih on instinct.

    “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” Coran tilts the mug of space tea he’s sipping towards Keith, gaze fixed on the sleeping kit he’s cradling. “Though if I may ask…”

    There’s no reason for him to be ashamed that he feels most comfortable when he can sleep with Kah-Yih by his side. It helps him guarantee his safety, and isn’t that the whole point of keeping him on the castleship in the first place? Still… “I was … just walking around to help him sleep.”

    Coran twirls his mustache around one finger and nods. “Funny, that. He’s been completely missing from his crib every time I’ve gone in there for a couple movements now.”

    He tries not to let the embarrassment show, but there’s heat creeping up his cheeks as his ears twist downwards. He doesn’t get another chance to defend himself, because Coran just strides forward and claps him on the shoulder.

    “Walk with me?”

    There’s really no room to protest, even if he does feel like he’s dying inside. He nods and allows Coran to lead him towards the kitchen.

    “What was your family dynamic like, on Earth?”

    Keith sucks in a breath. Starting with the hard part, huh? ‘Nonexistent’ is about the best answer he’s able to give. “I, um … unsteady?” he offers instead.

    “Your mother,” Coran starts, and, _god,_ he can’t have this conversation, but Coran is probably just trying to help so he’s going to have to grin and bear it. “It is your mother who is Galra, right?”

    Keith nods mutely.

    “Did she ever have a chance to explain your heritage to you?”

    “I was just as surprised to find out about it as everyone else.”

    Coran thinks on that for a while, sipping the earthy-smelling tea. “Is nesting common with humans?”

    “I’ll be honest,” he sighs, “I’m not entirely clear on what you mean by that.”

    “Well, simulating the comfort of having another living being around, of course. And, when you _do_ have others in the nest, having a comfortable and warm place to sleep, full of places to burrow.” Coran looks him in the eye, now, pausing in the kitchen doorway and forcing Keith to stop as well. “I can only imagine you’ve built a nest, with all the linens that have turned up missing. Otherwise we may have a linen-stealing kapish-neyiwan on our hands.”

    Wisely, Keith chooses not to ask what the hell that word means. He opts instead to hide his guilt by looking off down the corridor towards the paladins’ quarters. “I mean…”

    Coran just chuckles and shakes his head, moving out of Keith’s space to dispose of his empty mug in the sink. “Nothing to be ashamed of, now. That’s typical behaviour. I dare say I’d be more concerned if you weren’t nesting, especially now.”

    “Especially now?” Keith echoes.

    “Especially now that you’ve imprinted,” Coran says, like it’s obvious, and the colour drains from Keith’s face. He has a couple vague ideas about what that word usually implies.

    “Now that I’ve _what?”_

 

* * *

 

 

    Elena fights to make sure Keith gets to stay at his current school, since he’s been doing so much better since Mr. Byrd started teaching his class.

    He walks to school every day, and is tasked with escorting his two younger foster sisters, Zahra and Marla, there and back. He goes out of his way to introduce them to Mr. Byrd about a week into this arrangement.

   In turn, Mr. Byrd actually pays his current house a visit to get to know more about Keith. Unfortunately, the foster parents here aren’t particularly fond of him, and he doesn’t have to be socially adept to see they’re pissed after they turn his teacher away at the door, demanding that Keith’s living situation isn’t any of his business.

    He gets an earful about inviting strangers into their home and how disrespectful he is, and how for all they know that’s someone from child protective services here to investigate them, and is that what he wants? To get them into trouble for something ridiculous like not having a spotless house or keeping junk food in the pantry? Does he ever _think_ before he acts?

    Keith tries to point out that he never actually _invited_ Mr. Byrd over, and that Mr. Byrd was just trying to pay some extra courtesy to his class of problem-children, but he’s interrupted at every turn, until they finally give up lecturing him and send him to bed.

 

    He doesn’t know what to make of the tinge of concern in Mr. Byrd’s gaze the following morning.

 

    It’s only a few weeks after that incident that he _really_ fucks up. He’s just taping a picture he drew to the window frame in his room -- his own room, for once, so he can hardly complain about the living situation -- when his foster father, Dan, throws the door open without knocking. This is par for the course, and so is the frustrated noise he makes at the sight of the flowers from the garden Keith made an attempt at recreating. His real-life drawings never turn out very well, but he’s at least great at caricatures, and though he wouldn’t admit it to any adult, the grafitti’d murals and letters on the walls of abandoned buildings a couple blocks away are some of his proudest accomplishments.

    “That’s it,” Dan growls, marching right over to his desk and scooping up an armful of the art supplies Mr. Byrd gave him. “This is unbelievable.”

    “Wait, what’re you doing?” Keith asks, but Dan ignores him, grabbing more stuff, including some of the pictures off the walls, and storming down the hall. Keith chases after him, concerned for the well-being of some of his most treasured possessions.

    It becomes pretty clear what Dan is doing when he flips the lid on the garbage can up and just dumps everything in there.

    “What the hell?” Keith cries. “Stop that! Those aren’t yours!”

    Dan rounds on him, seething, and Keith recoils. He doesn’t fare well around people who are bigger and angrier than him. “Go the hell outside,” Dan says through gritted teeth. “Stop with this girly shit. Man the fuck up and do something useful with yourself. Go mow the fucking lawn or something. Throw a fucking _football._ Quit being such a _pansy,_ for fuck’s sake!”

    Keith had been preparing a retort, but as Dan finishes speaking he slams his fist into the wall and that’s all it takes to send Keith scurrying out the back door to start up the lawnmower.

 

    Everything he had in his room is gone. The walls are bare, his desk is empty, and the contents of his knapsack have been dumped on the floor and rummaged through, presumably to separate his school work from his art supplies.

    It occurs to him somewhere underneath all the heartbreak that it was oddly considerate of Dan to make sure he didn’t accidentally jeopardize Keith’s already-poor grades, since the guy is such an overall d-bag.

    There’s a ratty old soccer ball at the foot of his bed. He doesn’t dare touch it.

    He wanders back out of his room feeling a lot more than he’s bothered to let himself feel in a long time. Dan is sat at in the living room watching something on the television that Keith doesn’t care to give attention to. He’s too busy trying to unstick the words from his throat: What did you do with my stuff?

    He already knows the answer, if the garbage bag by the road is any indication. He bites down hard on his lip as he looks at it, folds in on himself when Dan snaps, “Don’t let me catch you going after it. Do something manly for once. You’re too old for that crap.”

    “Right. Yeah,” Keith says, and his voice doesn’t betray the anger simmering beneath the surface. He nods and backs out of the room, follows his subconscious to the kids’ room. Both girls are outside playing in the bag of grass clippings he left by the door. They aren’t in here to stop him from taking all their craft supplies and hauling them into the washroom.

    There’s a nagging voice in his head reminding what a godawful idea this is, but he can’t stop himself.

    He needs a good excuse to get kicked out of this stupid house, and he wants to give Dan one last “fuck you” on his way out.

    He scribbles on the mirror, the wall, the tile, the shower curtain, the _cabinets._ He draws all the _girliest shit_ he can think of (or whatever Dan’s opinion of ‘girly’ seems to be), from flowers and butterflies to an exaggerated cartoon of a unicorn shitting rainbows. On the back of the door, he draws an enormous caricature of Dan’s pissed-off face, vein popping from his forehead and teeth gnashing.

    And in big, bright pink bubble letters, he paints “ASSHOLE” underneath that.

    Fuck the grafitti down the road. _This_ is his proudest moment. Anger makes great fuel for art.

    Satisfied with his work thus far, he opens every bottle of glitter he could find and starts dumping it all over the place, going so far as to toss a couple handfuls in the air to see where it will land.

    He must look hilarious when Dan finds him -- hands stained with a whole rainbow’s worth of ink, hair full of glitter, finger paint smudged across one cheek.

    Dan, on the other hand, is apoplectic with rage. He didn’t expect any less; now he’s going to get the phone call to the agency, and Elena’s disappointed (but hopefully kind of amused) expression as he loads his stuff into the car, and a couple weeks or months in the group home, or maybe even another foster home. This is what he _wanted._

    What he gets instead is a foot to the stomach.

    “Are you fucking _kidding me?”_ Dan roars as Keith goes down hard, gasping for air.

    There’s a good reason Keith thinks he’s an asshole, but Dan has never actually _hurt_ him before.

    He’s just regaining control of his senses when Dan’s foot comes down again and smashes his shoulder into the linoleum flooring. Keith makes some kind of embarrassing noise, like a hybrid between a grunt and a squeak. He doesn’t think anything broke, but it definitely hurts like hell.

    Dan doesn’t stop there. He keeps kicking him, shouting insults at him the whole time, until Keith is barely clinging to consciousness, and then heavy footfalls retreat down the hallway and he’s left alone just like that.

    Some twenty minutes later, he’s limping down the street with his knapsack dragging on the pavement behind him. He knows where he’s going (spends almost every Saturday there), and feels welcome when he arrives despite the dark interior and the lonesome feeling of the restaurant when it’s empty. Maybe, he thinks, as he sinks to the ground behind the dumpster out back, he can wait here until Saturday. It’s only a few days away, and he isn’t ready to face Elena yet. He isn’t ready to put his failures on display like that. It’s obvious what happened. It’s obvious he was too weak to defend himself.

    So maybe he’ll wait here until Mr. Byrd comes by for their meeting on Saturday, and then he’ll feel strong enough to deal with everything else that’s coming his way, like the prospect of changing schools, or admitting that all those expensive art supplies Mr. Byrd had spent his own money on have gone into the trash, because he was too much of a failure to even salvage _that._

    

    Instead, he wakes up to the sun glaring down from high in the sky and a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and when he looks up Mr. Byrd is _right there,_ looking as worried as ever, and it occurs to him that he missed school this morning and not only that, but his teacher, who is starting to figure him out the way only two other people ever have before, knew exactly where to look for him.

    He tries to keep the tears from being obvious as he’s helped to his feet and escorted into the cafe to wait for Elena and the police, and when he apologizes over and over, Mr. Byrd assures him just as many times that there’s nothing to apologize for.


	6. And Asked For My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks!!!! The chapter I wrote this whole fic for!
> 
> This motherfucker has existed for upwards of THREE YEARS while I worked on the rest of the fic leading up to this BS, and now I get to experience the absolute pleasure of writing everything that comes after (however long that takes).
> 
> Before posting this (after posting chapter 5) I went back and edited some things and added a "flashback" piece and a bit at the beginning, but other than that the rest of this whole chapter was literally written in 2016 in anticipation of me turning my shoddy idea into a whole story. How far we have come!

* * *

 

 

    Lance gets hit by one of the simulation energy blasts (entirely his fault for goofing off during training). Keith’s been grazed by one before, so he knows it doesn’t actually do any damage, but it still hurts a little.

    Like getting shot with a paintball gun, maybe.

    “I’m dying,” Lance whines as he flops onto Keith’s lap with his arm over his eyes. Keith, as a result, nearly drops the water pouch he’s trying to drink.

    “You’re not dying, oh my god. You’re so dramatic,” he laughs, shoving him off and rolling his eyes when he tumbles to the floor with an indignant cry.

    “I _am_ dramatic,” he says, brushing himself off as he gets back to his feet. “That’s part of my charm.”

    He doesn’t admit out loud that it absolutely is charming, the way most things about Lance tend to be, but it seems to be enough that he laughs even harder when Lance shoots finger guns at him.

    

 

    More hands make less work, which is why Keith and Lance have to work together to keep the disaster that is Kah-Yih’s room in check. This process is made more difficult by the kit in question, who is walking around pulling toys off of shelves as soon as they’re put away.

    Keith is a half second away from sticking him in the crib until they can finish making the room look at least _presentable_ when Coran waddles in with an armful of laundry.

    “Thanks, Coran,” he says, rushing forward to help him with the stack of folded baby clothes, blankets, and bibs.

    “It’s no trouble. Our washing systems do all the hard work.” Once his arms are free, he reaches down to scoop up Kah-Yih, who howls delightedly at being lifted so high up into the air. Coran even makes airplane noises while he pretends to fly the kit through the room, something he definitely picked up from Lance. “And how’s my favourite little Hayettling? Not causing too much mischief for poor Keith, right?”

    Keith is about to remark that he is, in fact, getting into all kinds of mischief, but then Kah-Yih trills and says, “Keet!”

    He freezes with a stack of shirts halfway into their drawer. Did Kah-Yih just....?

    “Kee- _yit!_ ” Kah-Yih says, more insistently, straining against Coran’s grip and pointing at Keith as he speaks.

    The shirts tumble to the floor, forgotten.

    “Yeah! Keith, that’s Keith!” Lance exclaims, leaping forward and nudging Keith closer to his kit.

     _His_ kit, because he’s apparently gone and imprinted on him, however that works (he’s pretty sure on Earth it’s the other way around, with the babies imprinting on the guardians, but aliens are weird). Whatever kind of bond ‘imprinting’ created swells up with happiness when Kah-Yih reaches for him and says his name again.

     _His kit_ knows his name.

    That kind of pride is new, and strange. He likes it.

    “That’s right,” he says breathlessly when Coran passes Kah-Yih to him. “I’m Keith. I’m … yeah, I’m Keith, good job!”

    Then Lance is at his side, a hand cupping his elbow as he leans over Keith’s shoulder to talk to Kah-Yih. “What about Lance? Do you know that one yet?”

    “Kee-yit,” he says again, ignoring Lance in favour of reaching up to pull Keith’s hair. “Kee, Kee, Kee-yit.”

    Lance wilts against him; his hair tickles Keith’s cheek when he slumps down against his side. “I feel so unloved,” he complains.

    Instead of cleaning the nursery like they’re supposed to be doing, they sit on the floor for over an hour trying to teach Kah-Yih to say ‘Lance’, but the best he can do is ‘La-la’, which (in Keith’s professional opinion) is about three hundred times better.

 

*

 

    “These people seem like douchebags.”

    “Keith!”

    “C’mon, Shiro. Harems? Slaves? How are they any better than the Galra?”

   Allura sighs. “We know. Their only redeeming quality is their opposition to the Galran conquest.”

    “There’s also all those other planets they’re allied with. Probably a real bonus, huh?”

    “Keith.” Allura pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please try to be less cynical. You’re right, this _is_ about numbers. An alliance with the Ma’haroviit can mean the difference between winning and losing against the Loyalists and the remainder of the Empire.”

    Lance raises his hand. “So, we’re just going to ignore all the messed-up stuff they do? They sound awful. I don’t know if I support this.”

    “My father disliked them as well. They were a contributing factor in the reasons for Voltron’s construction. I promise, when all this is over we will see to it that they change their ways. For now, we _desperately_ need to form this alliance. The Galra empire is only growing stronger and more determined.”

    Keith squints contemplatively at his holopad for a couple seconds longer before sighing and relenting. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go.”

    “Me, too,” Lance grumbles, scrunching up his face at the thought of having to interact with these aliens in a _calm and civilized manner_.

    The rest of the paladins also reluctantly agree to Allura’s plan, and even Allura and Coran look less than enthused.

 _This is going to be super fun_ , Lance thinks sarcastically, exchanging a look of apprehension with Keith. Between them, Kah-Yih flicks his ears a couple times and stretches as he starts to wake up from his nap.

    “We’ll have to synthesize him some formal clothes,” Keith says quietly to Lance as he pulls the kit more securely against his side. This is the first diplomatic mission they’ve all been required to attend since adopting him.

    “I’ll ask Coran,” Lance whispers back, oblivious to the fact that his teammates are reviewing Ma’haroviit customs and history around them. “If we can’t make anything I’ll just sew something from an old shirt.”

    Keith scoffs, a smile playing about his lips. “In under a day?”

    “You underestimate my power.”

    “You _over_ estimate your power. You don’t even have a proper sewing machine.”

    Lance smirks. “You wanna bet on it?”

    “If you can’t make a proper outfit by tomorrow morning I get to have those Tahjukian hard candies from the space mall you’ve been saving.”

    “Fine.” Lance crosses his arms and puffs out his chest. “I’m going to make the _cutest_ outfit, and you’re going to be blown away, and you’re going to give me that fancy fruit toothpaste and half of those space chocolates Hunk made you.”

    Keith’s eyes widen. “How do you know about those?”

    “He’s my best friend, Keith, come on. I tried one while he was making them and almost died from happiness.”

    Immediately, Keith is scowling, but he slumps his shoulders in defeat. “Okay, fine, but _only_ half.

    Kah-Yih snuffles a couple times and blinks his eyes open. “Kee-yit!” he trills, reaching up towards Keith’s face.

    “Hi,” Keith says, tone instantly softer than it was just a moment ago. He smiles lovingly down at the toddler on his lap. “Sleep well?” He takes hold of the clawed hands tangling in his hair as Kah-Yih nods, still blinking sleepily, and Lance forgets to look away. Kah-Yih nods and Keith nuzzles his hand, pale lavender and mint green contrasting sharply. “Hungry?”

    Kah-Yih nods again and Keith stands and carries him from the room wordlessly.

    Lance watches him the whole way out the door. He’d like to say Keith is a whole different person around that kid, but he knows the change was never really that drastic. It’s the _same_ Keith, but he expresses himself with less yelling and with more tender touches. Lance can almost feel his heart expanding just watching them.

    He catches sight of Pidge across the common room, also ignoring the “proper adults” in favour of making kissy faces and heart signs in his direction. Hunk is very obviously trying not to laugh beside her. He launches an entire cushion at Pidge’s head.

 

*

 

    Keith can’t bring himself to say anything for a few seconds after Lance presents him with Kah-Yih, clad in a light purple suit vest with violet ruffles and golden buttons. Kah-Yih himself couldn’t seem to care less about the foreign attire, happily chewing on a rubber toy ball. Keith, however, is awestruck, looking back and forth between him and Lance and _gaping_ before he collects himself and gathers Kah-Yih into his arms. The kit latches onto his side possessively and continues to sharpen his teeth on his chew toy.

    “You _made_ this?”

    “Yup,” Lance says, popping the ‘p’. “Pretty good, right?”

    “How?”

    “When you went to get him food I asked Allura what kind of clothes he should wear today, and she showed me some pictures of Altean kids’ formal-wear and offered one of her old dresses for fabric. So I spent a couple hours with a needle and thread, and ta-da! Cute, right?” He gestures proudly at the distracted child at the center of their attention.

    A huge grin breaks out on Keith’s face. “That’s awesome!” he says, and Lance’s flushes pink from his ears to his toes. “Thank you!”

    “Oh, it was nothing, y’know. I had fun. I used to sew to relax back home. And knit.”

    Finally, Kah-Yih gives up on his ball and sniffs the air experimentally, before giggling and reaching out for Lance again.

    “Glad to see you appreciate my efforts, kiddo.” Lance laughs as Kah-Yih drools a bit onto the collar of his new shirt. He wipes his chin with his thumb and the baby coos happily and climbs onto his shoulders. “Yeah, I know I’m the best. Don’t tell Keith,” he stage-whispers. Kah-Yih just chews on his hair.

    Keith can feel his heart stutter a bit as he watches them, smile growing wider. He hums sarcastically. “Yeah, right. And how many of his diapers have you changed?”

    “Four hundred and thirty seven,” Lance recites proudly, sticking his tongue out at Keith.

    “Six hundred and five.”

    “Oh.”

    “Yeah.”

    “You go through a lot of diapers, Kah-Yih, did you know that?”

    Kah-Yih kicks his feet at the mention of his name. Lance tightens his grip on his legs when he almost topples off his shoulders.

    “We could have bought so many other things with all that money,” Keith says, shaking his head, but he’s smiling as Kah-Yih bounces and rocks, trying to start some kind of game with Lance.

    “Totally worth it, though. Right, little dude?” Kah-Yih actually high-fives him when he reaches up and holds out his hand. “Alright, you go back to Keith. I’ve got a diaper bag to pack, apparently.”

    It’s not _Keith’s_ fault the diaper bag isn’t packed. He can’t figure out how the hell to work the clasps on this weird Altean dress shirt. There are several black straps that criss-cross over where it fastens, and he’s not sure which one goes where, or whether to start with the clasps on the shirt itself or the ones for the straps.

    It isn’t helping that Lance only has two long, deep red straps that stretch from his right shoulder to left hip and look _completely uncomplicated_.

    Kah-Yih is placed on his hip again while Lance wanders about the room and starts loading the oversized bag with supplies.

    He sighs and tugs on the boots that came with the outfit. They’re tight and uncomfortable, but he _must_ get this right if they’re going to win over a group of aliens who probably hate his race. At least the shoes slip right on; no confusing accessories necessary.

    When he stands up, Lance is tucking the corner of a blanket into the bag and closing it. “Anything else we’re gonna need? I put an extra pair of clothes just in case.”

    “Uh, no, I think we’re good,” Keith responds, running his fingers through the fur atop Kah-Yih’s head.

    “Cool. Maybe do up your shirt before you accidentally offend some random alien royal or something.”

    Keith snorts. “I think I look offensive enough to them, anyway.” He makes no move so start fastening the clasps, and hurt flashes across Lance’s face before it’s replaced by understanding.

    “Oh! You can’t -- yeah, that looks pretty confusing.”

    “Tell me about it,” Keith mumbles as Kah-Yih starts chewing on one of the straps.

    “Teh-mee-bow-it,” he repeats, muffled.

    Lance laughs at them as he starts fiddling with Keith’s shirt for him. “Don’t teach him your nasty sarcasm, you monster. He’s going to grow up all cynical like you.”

    “I am not cynical.”

    “Mm-hm,” Lance nods, doing up the tops few clasps of his shirt and then starting to cross the straps over each other. He doesn’t look particularly confident in what he’s doing, but … Keith _likes_ this, for some reason. He likes how close they’re standing and the determination in Lance’s eyes and the subtle physical contact and -- his heart flutters when he thinks about reaching out to take Lance’s hand and _oh god he’s blushing why_. “Your entire demeanour says otherwise.”

    “Well, now you’re teaching him to be rude, you hypocrite.”

    “Touché,” Lance mumbles, giving Kah-Yih a kiss on the forehead as he struggles to hook the last strap into place.

    “Ugh, this is tight. It feels like a corset,” Keith muses quietly, and Lance raises an eyebrow at him.

    “And, you would know that … how, exactly?”

    “Oh, I definitely wear corsets all the time.” Keith can’t help but grin at Lance, who looks momentarily astounded before he catches on that Keith’s only joking.

    “See! This is the kind of sarcastic nonsense I’m talking about! You’re going to wrongly influence him. Right, Kah-Yih?”

    “Right,” comes the distracted reply.

    “Don’t make him take sides! He’s barely a year old! _You’re_ the one wrongly influencing him!” Keith covers Kah-Yih’s large ears as he whisper-screams back at Lance.

    “First off, he’s almost two, don’t be dramatic. And I didn’t _make_ him do it; he just agreed with me!”

    “He’s a baby; he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to!”

    “Oh my quiznak, I can’t believe we’re arguing in front of him,” Lance says suddenly, even though they’re not even _actually_ arguing. “Our kid’s going to grow up with a ton of problems because his parents couldn’t get along!”

    Keith sucks in a breath, because certainly none of them have really claimed official parenting rights, though most of the team has acknowledged that technically Kah-Yih _is_ Keith’s and respected boundaries, falling more into the categories of aunts and uncles. He never stopped to consider the implication that he plays the role of _parent_ for this kid -- he was just so desperate to keep him away from people who might potentially harm him that he leapt into the position before anyone else could. But Lance _has_ been more present, has fallen into the role alongside Keith. He’s been the one to follow Keith into the kitchen at ungodly hours of the night to help him with the crying toddler, and insist that Keith go get more sleep. He’s the one who takes Kah-Yih without a word to go change his diaper when it needs to be done, who reads him bedtime stories, who Keith has fallen asleep against countless times, who heats up milk while Keith takes a moment to eat his own meal.

    Everyone else, even Shiro, has been there the whole time as well, but Keith hasn’t been as dependent on any of them. They’re too busy with the war for childcare, and that leaves Lance and Keith to juggle both.

    “Oh,” Keith says softly. “Oh. We’re his … _oh_.”

    “Keith, sorry, I -- do you need to sit down?”

    “I never really thought, like … I know his parents died and we’re taking care of him now but I never really considered myself, y’know, a _dad_.” Keith actually does sit down, shifting Kah-Yih onto his thigh and holding him close. But then, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If he really did this whole imprinting business and performed the Galra equivalent of legally adopting a kid, that makes him the dad.

    Shit -- he doesn’t know how to be a _father._ His wasn’t around long enough to teach him anything about parenting and he hasn’t exactly had the best role models.

    Lance laughs nervously. “You’ve been missing out on a lot of daddy jokes from Pidge, then.”

    “Gross,” Keith mutters, grimacing. He doesn’t put much heart into it. Kah-Yih seems to be picking up on his sudden distress, fidgeting and whining in his lap. Keith strokes his ears and begins purring to soothe him.

    “Keith, you know, I didn’t mean to imply anything by--”

    “I’m not mad. I’m just surprised. I never thought about how much you’ve done for him before.” When he makes eye contact, Lance noticeably freezes up. “We _are_ his parents, aren’t we?”

    Lance rubs the back of his neck and looks at his shoes, ears pink. “I mean, yeah, pretty much. That’s not -- that’s not weird, is it?” he asks suddenly, looking up again and waving his hands in what appears to be an attempt at a placating gesture. “I don’t want it to be weird. I really like whatever it is we’ve been doing.”

    “No, it’s not weird. _I_ don’t think so, at least. Everyone else must, though, huh?”

    “I’m pretty sure Pidge thinks we’re, uh, together,” Lance squeaks.

    Keith hums, looking equally embarrassed. “Well, anyway. I just wanted to say, thanks for being here for me. I can’t believe I didn’t realize how much effort you’ve been putting into helping me out. I don’t know where we’d be without you.”

    Lance does a full one-eighty from embarrassment to shock. “W- you-! That was so sincere _what_?”

    “Uh, yes. You know I’m not a robot, right? I experience things like gratitude, Lance.”

    He can’t even hold back his laughter when Lance eyes him skeptically and says, “That sounds fake.”

    “You’re unbelievable.” He shakes his head, smiling, and in his lap, Kah-Yih starts purring, too.

 

*

 

    Evidently, Lance _also_ could not master the art of the weird detailing on his suit, because Coran exclaims something about traditions and symbolism and debauchery when they enter the control room (for a second Keith is convinced he’s implying that they’ve _done the nasty_ , and his heart skips, but he wonders how the hell Coran thinks they would’ve found the opportunity when they’re stuck on toddler-duty at all hours). The straps are rearranged in what is apparently the “correct and formal manner.”

    Allura announces their impending landing and Keith feels the shift as the castleship enters the atmosphere of Kallinda E-17.

    Keith watches Kah-Yih tumble and play around their feet, oblivious to their mission, and realizes he has _no clue_ what could happen out there. What kind of communicable diseases exist on this planet? Is he supposed to vaccinate his kid? How would he go about doing that? Is it even safe to bring him out of the castle and into this unfamiliar territory? Maybe he just shouldn’t risk it and they should stay home. Although, the king of the Ma’haroviit specifically requested to meet the entirety of Team Voltron.

    He bundles his kit perhaps a bit too frantically in his arms, suddenly afraid that something will go wrong and he’ll lose him. Lance’s hand touches his shoulder gently. “You okay?” he mouths over Hunk and Pidge’s chattering about architecture and green energy.

    Keith nods tensely and cups the back of Kah-Yih’s head. Kah-Yih just yawns and tries to shift down to sit against his hip.

*

 

    They’re greeted by a tall humanoid much like the ones in the pictures they were shown. His skin tone is a pale peach, just a touch off from looking human, and he has coarse black hair gathered atop his head in an elaborate updo. Keith gets one look at his face and decides this guy is a grade-A creep and he’ll leave the talking to the other members of the Voltron crew.

    Regardless of his own decision, the alien’s protuberant purple eyes linger on him a moment too long to be comfortable, and Keith’s ear twitches in annoyance.

    He’ll not soon forget the deplorable shit he read about these people in their database.

    The castleship door breezes shut behind them, leaving them out in the harsh white light of this system’s star as the citizens gathered in the streets to witness their arrival scream praises from all directions. Kah-Yih covers his ears and hides his face against Keith’s chest. Keith, in turn, wraps a reassuring arm around him.

    He almost feels unsafe without his armour on. It irks him that they were specifically told to wear formal clothes instead of their usual uniforms. What if the planet is attacked while they’re here?

    It wouldn’t be the first time a diplomatic mission has gone awry.

    “Voltron,” the sleazy-looking alien croaks, taking Allura’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “A mighty impressive group of warriors, I must say. Impressive, indeed. I am Qindra, King of the Ma’haroviit of Kallinda E-17.” He moves on to squeeze Coran’s hand, then Shiro’s, and Keith realizes this is the Ma’haroviit interpretation of a handshake. He intentionally keeps his hands occupied with Kah-Yih, pretending he has to support his weight with both arms, as Qindra approaches him. The King merely smiles and bows slightly to him. Keith returns the gesture, even though suspicion bubbles in his gut at the way he’s _looking_ at him; indiscernible but predatory nonetheless.

    He suppresses a shudder.

    “It is lovely to finally meet all of you. My people have been very anxious to see the paladins for themselves. The past ten thousand deca-phoebs have been difficult under the threat of the Galra Empire.”

    “It is certainly lovely to meet you, as well,” Allura replies, inclining her head slightly in acknowledgement.

    Keith feels the vibration of Kah-Yih whimpering as much as he hears it. He purrs softly to placate him. Surely things will be quieter once they’ve gotten to wherever they’re going.

    Allura and King Qindra continue to speak as he holds out an arm for her, his white and pale-gold robes glistening in the sunlight as they start down the street towards a gargantuan structure Keith can only assume is his palace. Plants of all varieties and colours grow over and around the powder blue exterior, and the walls are lined in several places with the same glossy black panels that seem to adorn most of the visible buildings.

    Solar panels, he presumes, and that’s probably one of the only ethical traits these aliens have -- they’re environmentally conscious, but still cruel and awful.

    “The rest of my family eagerly awaits your arrival inside the palace. We have prepared a feast in Voltron’s honour, and will be hosting a celebration tonight,” Qindra is saying. Coran nods beside him.

    “We greatly appreciate the efforts, Your Highness.”

    Keith has to bounce Kah-Yih to calm him as he squirms and whines in his grip. Lance waving to their onlookers is only escalating the noise level. Even _Keith’s_ ears hurt. God, diplomatic missions suck. He _hates_ loud noises.

    “Hey,” Hunk says beside him. “You alright?”

    Keith realizes he’s been grimacing, ears folded back. “Uh, yeah, sorry. It’s just loud here and it’s upsetting Kah-Yih.”

    Hunk nods solemnly. They’re almost at the palace, at least. “I can see that. Do you need any help with him?”

    “No, I’m -- I’m good, thanks.” Keith turns a slightly darker purple. “It helps when I, uh, purr, so … it’s kind of a specific job.”

     “Aww, that’s so sweet,” Hunk gushes, smiling down at the kit who is nuzzling against Keith’s chest to stay close to the rumbling purr he’s emitting. “You’re like little cats.”

     “I don’t know if ‘little’ is the right word, here,” Keith says, smiling back at Hunk. “I mean, he’s pretty small, but definitely bigger than a cat.”

    “You’re _both_ little to most people,” Hunk laughs, ruffling Keith’s hair. “Even Lance is starting to tower over you.”

    Wait, really? Keith’s eyes widen as he whips his head around to look at Lance, who has taken a break from crowd-pleasing and is making his way back over to them.

    He _is_ getting taller, Keith realizes, a pang of jealousy shooting through him. Christ, he must be the universe’s shortest Galra.

    “Hey,” Lance greets, smoothing down the mess Hunk just made of Keith’s hair before resting a hand carefully on Kah-Yih’s back. “You doing okay?”

    “Just loud,” is all Keith says.

    Finally, mercifully, they enter the cool and quiet foyer of the palace. Well, _comparatively_ quiet. There are servants milling about, seemingly doing chores and running items and food to other rooms, and what appears to be more royals waiting for them at the bottom of a massive, open staircase. It’s strangely reminiscent of palaces on Earth, though the decor is slightly off -- more modern. The floor is golden tile and the light blue walls are mostly barren, the high ceiling is partially obscured by creeping vines that seem to have used open skylights as an entry point, and much like Altean architecture, there are blue lights embedded along the walls, railings, and baseboards.

    King Qindra wastes no time in beginning to introduce the royal family, which consists of his wife, two sons, four daughters, and for some reason another man and woman who he simply introduces as “Dailus and Hepza”, no formal titles or declarations of relation included. Keith might assume they were an aunt and uncle, but they are not standing together, nor do they look at all like the King or Queen. Rather, Dailus looks almost like --

     _Oh_ , Keith thinks, not sure why he’s so surprised. They’re sex slaves. Breeding tools, or something.

    One of the sons looks like Dailus. Three of the daughters bear resemblance to Hepza. Neither seems particularly happy to be here.

    Both, however, are strikingly beautiful. Despite the bulging eyes that are a common feature amongst the Ma’haroviit, Keith can see that. Dailus is pale, almost translucent, but in a frail and intriguing way. His sharp orange eyes contrast with his skin tone, as does his deep auburn hair.

    Hepza’s skin is so dark it looks as though it’s tinged purple, her pale white-pink hair shocking by comparison. She makes eye contact with him, and he smiles at her, trying to show that he isn’t like these people who have kept her a slave. She startles and looks down again immediately, fear evident in her posture.

    Keith shoots Qindra a disgusted glare as they ascend the stairs into the banquet hall.

    Once they’re all seated (except Dailus and Hepza, who have been mysteriously escorted from the room, despite apparently being part of the family), King Qindra opens up with an official welcome speech for Team Voltron.

    “Kee-yit,” Kah-Yih whispers as everyone starts eating. “Kee-yit!” Keith turns to look down at him and Kah-Yih grabs his cheeks and tries to pull him down. “Bounce!”

    Keith kisses him on the forehead and Kah-Yih giggles, kicking his feet in excitement. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lance flagging down one of the many servants -- _slaves_ \-- in the room.

    “Excuse me, is there anywhere I can warm this up? It’s for the baby,” he explains, showing them the bottle of formula in his hand.

    “Oh, certainly,” the slave replies. He reaches for the bottle, but Lance draws his hand back.

    “No, it’s okay. I can do it. Just show me where, please.” He flashes a dazzling smile, but Keith can see discomfort behind it.

     The slave nods and gives a worried glance in his King’s direction, then gestures for Lance to follow him. “I’ll be right back,” Lance whispers to Keith as he stands from his seat and excuses himself.

    “Buh-bye,” Kah-Yih calls, waving at him over Keith’s shoulder.

    “All right, c’mon. Have a seat.” Keith sits him down on his thigh again and starts cutting some of the meat on his plate. He takes a quick bite to make sure it isn’t poisoned or something, then offers pieces to Kah-Yih, who sniffs it experimentally as though thinking along the same lines as Keith. “Go ahead. You need to start eating solid food more often.”

    Kah-Yih grasps a piece of meat between his stubby fingers and crams his whole hand in his mouth. Keith smiles fondly at him, shaking his head.

    “Okay. Close enough.”

    “You are Galra,” a nasally voice pipes up across the table.

    Keith looks up to see the prince who looks like Dailus staring at him in the same unsettling way that Qindra does. Despite his relation to Dailus, he seems to have developed a personality similar to his father’s. The taunting smirk he’s given only confirms this theory.

    “ _Part_ Galra, yeah,” he replies shortly, and the prince eyes Kah-Yih with unabashed curiosity.

    “I am Prince Yuel’dra,” he says after a moment. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

    “Indeed,” Keith says, keeping his voice civil.

    “It is not often one meets a Galra so … pleasurable to look at,” he continues, a glint in his lavishly purple eyes. “Nor one who is in opposition to his own race.”

    Completely taken aback, Keith _gapes_ at him for a moment, before rage and disgust take over and he glowers at Yuel’dra. “I’m human _first_ , and I fight the Galra because I think keeping slaves is disgusting and immoral.”

    Yuel’dra _laughs_ , high and grating, and Keith has to remind himself to take a deep breath. Just like Shiro showed him. Four seconds in, hold, eight seconds out. “Yet here you are, opting to form an alliance with someone so disgusting and immoral. They must not be very strong beliefs that you hold.”

    He just about lunges across the table to slap the bastard in the face, but Lance returns just in time, brandishing a bottle of warm formula and leaning in close to Keith as he takes a seat. “Sorry that took a while. I had to boil water ‘cause I guess they don’t have alien microwaves here.” A hand brushes over his shoulder, grounding, and Keith wonders if Lance even _knows_ he can do that so easily.

    “It’s fine. Thanks,” Keith says, grateful for an excuse to end his interaction with the seedy prince. He passes the bottle off to Kah-Yih, who starts to alternate between shoving handfuls of meat into his mouth and sipping the formula.

    This relief, however, is short-lived. “Tell me, what is your name, half-breed?”

    Lance visibly tenses, turning an astounded look on the prince, then looking to Keith, who has resigned himself to this conversation. He sighs quietly and responds, “Keith.”

    “Interesting. A human name or a Galra name?”

    “Does it matter?”

    “Excuse me, but I’m afraid that is not an answer to my question,” Yuel’dra says saccharinely, and though he doesn’t have eyebrows Keith can tell his face is drawn taut with fury. He must be accustomed to getting what he wants. Too bad for him; Keith _wants_ to piss him off.

    “Well, I’m sure it could go either way.” Keith shrugs noncommittally and starts picking at his food, suddenly not as hungry as he was at the beginning of their meal. Kah-Yih, on the other hand, is uninhibitedly devouring half of his plate anyway, so he’s not worried about wasting any of it.

    The rest of their feast isn’t particularly enjoyable, but he does his best to ignore the prince and stay focused on Lance, who senses his tension and goes the extra mile to make him (and Kah-Yih) laugh.

 

*

 

    The celebrations are similar to a British royal ball, though not as formal. Everyone is dressed up, yes, but the music is more upbeat and the dancing less structured.

    Having hardly eaten any dinner, Keith makes a beeline for the dessert table first thing. Hunk is also there already, a couple metres down from them on the other side of the table, standing behind Pidge as she shows him something on her Punk-phone and loading a plate with pastries without even looking at what he’s doing.

    He also can’t help but notice that the prince who simultaneously hit on him and insulted him (and continued to do so throughout their entire meal) is nearby, having a pleasant chat with his equally-brazen father. He starts when they both look directly at him, and King Qindra raises an eyebrow before whispering something to his son that he can’t quite make out. Yuel’dra nods and that smug smirk returns as his father puts a hand on his shoulder and nods as well.

    Keith scowls and looks back at Lance. “He’s such a _prick_. He’s such an _entitled little racist prick_ ,” he hisses.

    Lance gasps. “Keith!” He covers Kah-Yih’s ears a couple seconds too late. “Think of the children!”

    “I’m okay with letting him learn this one, actually,” he says, swatting Lance’s hands away. “He’s gotta learn early who isn’t worth his time.”

    “We’re _not_ teaching him swear words at this age,” Lance says, smile playing at his lips.

    “Shut up and eat your space doughnut.”

    Lance sticks his tongue out and raises the doughnut to his lips, then pauses as Hunk calls out his name. “Be right back.”

    Keith grins. “Yeah, okay, have fun.” He holds up a piece of pastry for Kah-Yih to sniff.

    “Hello again, Paladin Keith,” Prince Yuel’dra says behind him. Keith blanches and spins around.

    “Yuel’dra,” he responds, making no attempt at sounding enthusiastic.

    “I apologize for my earlier behaviour. I believe you and I did not get off to such a spectacular start. I was simply unsure about how I should interact with you.” He moves way too far into Keith’s personal space and sticks out a hand, and Keith doesn’t even have an _excuse_ not to take it because he isn’t supporting Kah-Yih with his arms right now, only holding his plate of desserts with one hand. “I find you very intriguing. I hope that you will forgive me.”

    Keith _wants_ to tell him, _“No, fuck you, you bigoted, entitled, creep,”_ but what comes out is, “Uh, okay,” because he doesn’t want to ruin this whole alliance thing for them, no matter _how pissed off he is_. He can’t help but notice how cold and dry his hands are, and how tightly he squeezes Keith’s fingers together.

    “Excellent,” Yuel’dra drawls, and he’s so uncomfortably close that Keith is overwhelmed by his scent. It’s bitter, like rust and citrus. His eyes almost start watering. Kah-Yih tucks his head under Keith’s arms and chirps aggravatedly. “Would you join me for a tour of the grounds?”

    Keith eyes Yuel’dra’s proffered arm and barely masks a sneer. As though he’d ever go anywhere alone with this asshole. It takes all his self-restraint not to say something rude in retaliation -- _they need to defeat the Empire_. “I would prefer to stay at the party.”

    Yuel’dra draws himself up, and Keith realizes just how _tall_ and _domineering_ the Ma’haroviit are. He’s almost intimidated.

    Almost.

    “It was not a request, dear Paladin of Voltron. I demand your company away from the public eye,” the prince says, low and harsh with ire.

    So much for “forgiveness”.

    “Well, I don’t _want_ to go with you.”

    At this, Yuel’dra shifts backwards a bit, gaze trailing analytically over Keith, who sets the plate aside to place his hands on Kah-Yih’s back. Yuel’dra inclines his head slightly, as though confused. “As Crown Prince of the Ma’haroviit, I _get what I ask for_.”

    Keith really does sneer this time. “As my own person, _I_ get _autonomy_.”

    “...You intrigue me, Black Paladin,” Yuel’dra murmurs, still staring at him in a way that makes Keith feel strangely vulnerable.

    “He wants to be left alone,” Lance says suddenly, appearing beside him, and Keith doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound quite this _pissed_ before.

    He hadn’t even noticed Lance approaching them until now; he breaks eye contact with Yuel’dra and stumbles few steps back to just _get the hell away from him_.

    “This does not concern you,” Yuel’dra hisses, stepping purposefully around Lance to follow Keith. “Black Paladin, I was hoping to do this in private. It is my understanding that the preference for such ceremonial activities is alone in a more romantic setting.”

    Keith gapes, turning to stare wide-eyed at Lance, who still looks a bit stunned at being brushed off. What the _hell_ is Yuel’dra getting at?

    “I’ve had a discussion with my father, the King, and received his approval. You intrigue me, Black Paladin,” he repeats, and then looks directly at Kah-Yih, still coddled under Keith’s upper arm with his ears down. “I believe that you would be a suitable mate. Galra make ideal servants in our culture, but capturing one is so... difficult. It would be so much more simple for everyone if one were to just come willingly. We have my father’s approval to initiate a formal relationship immediately.”

    “Wh--” Keith’s head is spinning. “You want me to …” _Wait_. What kind of relationship is he...? Oh. Keith thinks of Dailus and Hepza and the skittish servants from their feast. The way the Ma'haroviit are apparently notorious for just taking what they want and doing as they please. No way in hell. He doesn't want anything to do with this guy, ever again. Especially not ... like  _that._ “ _No_ ,” Keith says firmly, and Yuel’dra looks taken aback.

    “Your tenacity is charming, but I am _Crown Prince_ , and I do not _request_ your service, I _demand it_.”

    “Hell. _No_ ,” Lance snarls, placing a hand on Yuel’dra’s chest and forcing him to take a step back. Keith lied: _this_ is the most pissed off he’s ever heard Lance. “He’s not interested.”

    “Oh, do _you_ have a right to override my claim? I see no mark of royalty.”

    Keith’s stomach drops. That shouldn't matter. It shouldn't, because Keith's wishes should be respected, but then -- when have they ever been? And no one ever said the Ma'haroviit were altruistic or even generous. Just slavemasters and imperialists, in their own right. They _need_ to form this alliance. He knows they're trying to hide it, but Allura, Coran, and Shiro always have this aura of concern and uncertainty during their meetings about Kallinda E-17, and he can tell it's because this is so vital to their success. And Lance _doesn’t_ have any kind of claim on him that would negate whatever creepy shit Yuel’dra is trying to pull.

    But ... he _could_.

    “We’re married,” Keith says, and both of them whip their heads around to stare at him.

    “You’re _what_?” Yuel’dra asks lowly.

    Understanding dawns on Lance’s face, and he nods quickly, “That’s why he’s not interested. He’s already in a relationship. With me.”

    “What kind of relationship is this?” Yuel’dra asks venomously, staring at Keith in a way that raises the hair on the back of his neck.

    “Marriage means sworn loyalty to one person for eternity, and _not_ engaging in relations with other people,” Lance says, “And it forbids _other people_ from making _inappropriate advances_ , so _back the hell off_.”

    Seems Lance is less concerned with throwing cordiality to the wayside.

    The last thing Keith expects is for Yuel’dra to _laugh_ , but he does, grating and bitter. “I suppose you expect me to believe that this … _thing_ is a product of your bonding?” He moves into Keith’s space again and reaches out towards Kah-Yih.

    In all the time he’s been stuck in this new body, and with all the unusual new things he’s learned about it, Keith has never made a noise quite like the one he makes when Yuel’dra gets too close to his kit. A monstrous growl builds up in his chest, scratching his throat as it bursts forth. In a swift movement, as the small amount of fur on his ears and around his face puffs up, he swings Kah-Yih around to rest against his front -- one arm looped protectively over him -- hunches forward to provide him more cover, and snatches Yuel’dra’s wrist in his free hand, twisting it to the side.

    A trickle of deep red blood runs down his forearm where Keith’s claws pierce his freezing skin.

    “ _Don’t touch him_ ,” he says lowly, teeth bared, as the prince’s expression morphs into utter shock.

    Lance is between them again, hands on his shoulders, then his cheeks, and Keith slowly relinquishes his grip on Yuel’dra’s arm. The hair around his ears lays flat again as he takes a couple deep breaths on Lance’s instruction. “We’re going to go back to the castle, okay?”

    Keith nods, biting down on the anger that’s boiling up beneath his skin still.

    Lance shakes his head and mouths something, waving his hand dismissively at something over Keith’s shoulder. He turns to see Hunk and Pidge frozen in place just a metre or two behind him. “Let’s go tell Shiro we’re going home for the night.”

    He nods again; lets Lance take his hand and start leading him through the crowd.

    “Do not think you will be getting your alliance after this, paladins!” Yuel’dra shrieks as they retreat. “You’ll soon find reason to change your mind.”

    “Ignore him,” Lance murmurs.

    “I’m trying,” Keith replies, attempting to maintain an unsteady purr as he rubs circles into Kah-Yih’s back and strokes his ears.

    They find Shiro by the main entrance, chatting amiably with Allura and what appears to be several members of the King’s court -- the group of Ma’haroviit who are running this show.

    He catches sight of the two of them and excuses himself from the group, leading them several paces in the opposite direction. “What’s wrong?”

    “Uh,” Lance laughs nervously, “Keith and I are headed home for the night. We had a … falling out? With that prince guy.”

    “I don’t think we’re getting an alliance, Shiro,” Keith interrupts. “He’s pretty pissed.”

    Shiro nods slowly, deep in thought. “Alright. You two head back. We’ll wrap up here, and you can explain once we’re all back at the castle. I have a meeting with King Qindra in the morning, so if the prince has any influence on him I’m sure I’ll hear about it tomorrow.”

    Keith is already turning away, trying to hurry out the doors, but Shiro touches his shoulder gently. “Keith, are you going to be okay?”

    “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says numbly.

    This gets him a suspicious look, but Shiro relents anyway, turning instead to Lance. Keith rushes out the door as Shiro is whispering something to Lance, _praying_ he isn’t telling him something stupid like “be gentle” or “he’s fragile.” He’s not a _fucking baby_. He doesn’t need to be _coddled_.

    Lance catches up to him at the foot of the staircase in the foyer. “They’re gonna be a while. Allura doesn’t want to bail on our own party so early. Which is fair.”

    In silence, they exit the palace and start down the street, relishing the cool evening air. Kah-Yih has calmed significantly, and Keith’s purring has become less tremulous. Having practically glued himself to Keith’s side, Lance lets the gentle sound soothe him.

    “Can I carry him?” he asks softly, gesturing to the now-docile kit.

    After a moment’s hesitation, Keith pries Kah-Yih’s fingers from his jacket and allows Lance to take him. Rather than immediately scale his body to sit on his shoulders, Kah-Yih just latches onto Lance’s front and plants his face firmly against his chest.

    “Huh, you don’t do that often,” Lance murmurs, stroking the top of his head.

    “Yuel’dra scared him. And he smelled really bad. I think it was bothering his nose.” Keith looks down at where Kah-Yih is rubbing his nose against Lance’s shirt. “You smell way better.”

    Lance doesn’t comment on that, but Keith doesn’t miss the way his cheeks turn pink in the dying light of day. “Well, I thought he smelled pretty bad, so I can only imagine what it must’ve been like for you guys. Like gross old lemon juice.” He pulls a face, sticking out his tongue just as Kah-Yih glances up at him.

    He sticks his tongue out at Lance, who laughs and pats the top of his head. “Yuck,” Lance says.

    Kah-Yih paddles his feet, tearing several tiny holes in Lance’s shirt. “Yuck! Yuck!”

    “Gross,” Lance tries, and Kah-Yih repeats after him, sticking his tongue out again.

    “Look at that, he thinks that Yuel’dra guy is gross, too. Like father, like son,” Lance sighs, eyes alight with pride.

    “I don’t think he’s old enough to have opinions of people, but you’re doing a really good job of influencing him,” Keith chuckles, ear twitching playfully as Lance sidles up closer to him (despite how wide the empty street is).

    “Aw, thanks. I do try.”

    Keith sighs and raises a hand to rest it between Kah-Yih’s ears, smiling as he makes a tiny, high-pitched sound of contentment.

    “So,” Lance starts, and Keith can feel him staring. “We’re married, huh?”

    Keith feels suddenly exhausted. God, that was probably _too_ rash of a decision. “I couldn’t … think of another way to get him to _stop_. Sorry if this makes things weird.”

    What’s worse, he wouldn’t mind being married to Lance. Really, really, would not mind that at all, and now he has to somehow pretend that isn’t the case.

    “That was pretty clever.” Keith looks up and Lance is _smiling_ at him. “Now we’ve just got to be, y’know, convincing.”

    “What do you mean?” Keith asks, ears turning slightly to the side as he tilts his head.

    “Really sell it, so the prince guy totally believes us. Obviously he’s not planning on just dropping this, so we can’t let our guard down. We’ve gotta convince him we’re telling the truth.” Lance’s eyes betray the panic building within him. “I don’t think anything we say will stop him, but this is the best chance we have right now.”

 _Oh._ Keith feels Lance’s fear now, as well. He doesn’t _want_ to be forced into a relationship like that. Hell, the only person he feels that kind of attraction to is Lance, and he’s not sure sex would even be a possibility for him any time soon. “But,” he says, eyes going slightly out of focus, “but I don’t want to. Why doesn’t that matter?”

    The tips of his ears are trembling.

    Lance takes Keith’s hand in his own. “It does matter. It matters to us.” He brings the back of his hand to his lips.

    Keith gapes at him, cheeks flushing darker purple, and even though Lance tries to placate him with a sly smirk and a wink, he’s blushing, too. “C’mon, if we’re married you have to deal with me being sappy.” He kisses his hand again and Keith has to fight the joyful smile tugging at his lips.

    “Fine,” he says, and pulls his hand back to slip his arm around Lance’s waist.

    Lance tenses up a bit, but doesn’t comment on it. As they approach the doors of the castleship, he wraps an arm wordlessly over Keith’s shoulders.

    Kah-Yih reaches out a paw to latch onto Keith’s jacket as well.

 

*

 

    “So here’s my question,” Shiro starts, already smirking as he enters the common room where Keith and Lance are huddled together on the couch, quietly cursing each other out over one of the games Pidge installed on the holopads, while Kah-Yih sleeps soundly, draped across their laps. Keith watches his character disappear in a fiery explosion onscreen and groans, glancing up at Shiro who looks _beyond_ amused. “When exactly did you two decide to tie the knot?”

    Keith groans _again_ , louder this time, and more embarrassed than frustrated.

    “Two hours and thirteen minutes ago,” Lance announces, not even looking up from his game. He’s so far ahead of Keith on this level that when Keith’s character respawns, he just ignores it and lets the avatar idle while he sets the holopad down on the cushion beside him. “...Ish.” He huffs when his character falls off a ledge and the game reloads.

    “You know you’re winning, right? You’re like a whole two levels ahead of me.”

    “Ha! I knew I could beat you! I win -- my point, that puts _me_ in the lead.” Lance shuts down his holopad and tosses it on top of Keith’s, placing a careful hand on Kah-Yih’s shoulders to keep him from being jostled by the motion.

    Keith stares blankly at him for several seconds, and is about to make fun of him for his idea of an “accomplishment” when Shiro, who is apparently still standing in the doorway, clears his throat.

    “Care to explain?”

    Almost by instinct, Keith looks to Lance, then remembers that Lance doesn’t even have the full story and he’s flying solo here. For the first couple seconds, at least. “Um, the prince guy -- Yuel’dra -- he was being very, y’know, asshole-ish during dinner--”

    “He called him a half-breed,” Lance interjects.

    “Yeah, among other things. And I … think he was flirting with me. I’m not sure. I don’t really know how to tell, but he kept insulting me and then complimenting me? So, I _think_ he was trying to flirt, or something. Which was weird, yeah, whatever, but I figured I’d just let it happen and then we could leave and I’d never have to see his annoying face again.” Shiro’s weight settles onto the cushion near him and he realizes he’s staring at his lap while he speaks. “But I guess he wasn’t trying to screw with me,” he continues, meeting Shiro’s calm and reassuring gaze. “He was trying to get me to leave the room with him during the dance, but, y’know, I’m not _stupid_ , I’ve already learned my lesson. But he got pissed when I wouldn’t go with him and then I guess he … kind of proposed? To me?”

    “Yeah,” Lance shifts incrementally closer to him, hand resting softly on his thigh, and Keith takes it in his own. “More like an invitation to be part of his harem, or whatever.”

    “So you told him no?” Shiro asks.

    “Obviously. You know I don’t want to … um, you know.” His face is burning and he doesn’t dare look back at Lance, but the understanding in Shiro’s eyes tells him he’s said enough. “Not yet. But he wouldn’t back off, even when Lance tried to stop him, so I just kinda said the first thing that came to mind. Which was, uh,” he huffs out a tiny laugh at how ridiculous this predicament is, “that Lance and I are married, so I can’t be with anyone else.

    “Which, in hindsight, was dumb, because we are the _farthest_ thing from married and we can’t make this convincing at _all_. _Crap_.” He covers his eyes with his free hand and flops back onto Lance, who laughs quietly right in his ear.

    “Good thing I’m an awesome actor. I will carry this show, so help me god.”

    (They both completely miss Shiro’s incredulous look as he takes in their current position, and the way his eyes shift to the side as he attempts to recall every single interaction they’ve ever had and wonders if, maybe, they’re both just _that_ dumb. They also miss the mischievous smile that works its way onto his face.) “All you have to do is practice.”

    Keith peeks at him from under his hands, remaining limp against Lance’s shoulder. “Practice … what? Being married?”

    “Yeah, of course. You know, the stuff married couples do. Act all sappy, compliment each other, kiss, whatever,” he says flippantly. “You already have petty arguments and child-rearing down, so you’re halfway there.”

    Lance and Keith glance in unison at the snoring toddler sprawled across their legs, then at each other, twin smiles breaking out on both of their faces.

    “Yeah,” Lance starts.

    “Wait, kiss?” Keith blurts, whipping his head around to look at Shiro so fast his neck cracks.

    “Well, you need to be convincing, don’t you? We have a meeting with the King in the morning to discuss the alliance and now, to discuss Yuel’dra’s … proposal. So you two need to be prepared. We can’t have you all flustered and fumbling trying to act like you’re married. You need to sell it. So Coran, Allura, and myself will be counting on you to deal with this while we focus on everything else. You’ll be coming to the meeting with us and handling the discussion with Yuel’dra and Qindra to deal with the issue of his … attraction.”

    Lance’s grip on Keith’s hand tightens minutely.

    “...Alright,” Keith squeaks, then clears his throat. His cheeks are very warm. It’s very warm in here. Why is he so warm?

    It’s definitely not the idea of kissing Lance that’s doing this to him.

    … _Hell._

    “Right. Well.” Shiro stands up and stretches exaggeratedly. “I’m off to bed. Early morning and whatnot. You two have fun.”

    Oh god, Keith is going _die_.

    Shiro just strolls out of the room and _leaves them there_ in awkward silence.

    “Uh,” Keith says, still staring at the spot Shiro disappeared.

    Lance clears his throat and Keith turns, slowly, to stare at _him_ instead. “This doesn’t have to be weird,” he offers.

    “It already kind of _is_ ,” Keith counters. Lance is still holding his hand. Okay. Okay, this could be worse. They could be completely unaccustomed to physical contact and still be expected to figure this out. At least they kind of have a head start here.

    “Okay,” Lance tries instead. “Kah-Yih needs to go to bed. And then we can, um--” His voice rises about ten octaves towards the end of his sentence.

    “Yyyup.” Keith nods slowly to himself. _Kiss Lance_. He is impressively not-panicked about this, but at the same time incredibly nervous, because the next few hours may be his only chance to _ever_ kiss him and he _needs_ to make the most of it.

    “Um. I’ll, uh…” Lance lifts Kah-Yih slowly from their laps and Keith reaches out to take him. Kah-Yih makes a disgruntled trilling noise, then nestles his face against Keith’s chest and grabs onto his shirt to keep himself in place, falling asleep again almost immediately. “I’ll meet you in your room?”

    Lance dashes off before he even has a chance to respond.

 

    Kah-Yih is clearly displeased with being placed in the nest all by himself, but after a few minutes of humming and coaxing, he curls up with the blankets fluffed up all around him. “Ugh, what am I gonna _do_?” Keith mumbles, kneeling beside the bed to stroke the soft fur between Kah-Yih’s ears. The kit, sound asleep now, doesn’t respond. “When you grow up, if you like someone, you better just _tell them_. Before it gets out of hand.”

    The door slides open to his left and light from the hall floods in, outlining Lance’s silhouette. Keith gulps.

    He _cannot_ make a big deal out of this. He _can’t_.

    Lance has his hands shoved in his pockets and he marches right up beside Keith, who braces himself against the bed to stand. “I _just_ realized that ‘I’ll meet you in your room’ sounds like it’s implying something _completely_ different than what I meant,” he says under his breath.

    Keith grins, and Lance doesn’t suppress the quiet laughter that builds in his chest.

    The door closes again and they’re left bathed in the faint blue glow of the safety lights along the bottom of the wall.

    For several agonizingly long seconds, they stare each other down. _Do it_ , the primal part of his brain urges, while the logical part demands that things might be _different_ after this. He steps forward, into Lance’s space, and wraps a hand quickly around the back of his neck to force his head down. In the same second his eyes slip shut, he slots their lips together. Two warm hands settle against his cheeks and he can taste his favourite fruit toothpaste on Lance’s lips.

    He has to break away from the kiss to laugh -- partially because the giddiness of kissing _Lance_ is making giggles bubble up in his chest, and partially because Lance _actually_ took him up on their bet from yesterday. Yesterday already feels like a lifetime ago.

    “What?” Lance asks, still holding Keith’s face between his hands. He scrunches his eyebrows together and Keith covers his mouth to hide his ridiculous grin.

    “You jerk,” he says, falling victim to another, shorter giggle fit. “You _stole_ my toothpaste.”

    The confusion melts away almost instantly into amusement. Lance begins to laugh, too. “Um, I _won_ your toothpaste, and it tastes like peaches and happiness, so you can’t have it back.”

    “When did you even have _time_ to steal my toothpaste?” Keith whispers, smiling even more widely. Lance’s thumb runs over his cheek; he removes the hand that’s covering his mouth and wraps his fingers loosely around Lance’s wrist.

    Lance clicks his tongue. “Won, not stole,” he corrects again.

    “ _Thief_ ,” Keith mutters.

    “Sore loser,” Lance counters.

    He isn’t able to formulate a response before Lance bends down and kisses him again, more firmly this time, and one hand moves down to his chest while the other slides up to tangle in his hair.

    All he can think about when Lance’s tongue is in his mouth is that his toothpaste tastes _really_ damn good like this. His back hits the wall before he even realizes Lance is pushing him backwards.

    “Am I going too far?” Lance asks when he finally backs off, and Keith glances over at the kit sound asleep on the bed nearby like the answer is over there.

    “We’re married,” he reasons, because in the moment he wants nothing more than for Lance to keep kissing him like that, even if it _is_ pushing the boundaries of what it means to “practice” kissing someone. “We can do whatever we want.”

    Lance nods enthusiastically. “And we have to be convincing,” he adds, voice teetering dangerously between the territory of ‘solemnity’ and ‘hilarious inside joke’.

    “We do,” Keith says, in the exact same tone. He only has tonight and tomorrow morning to kiss the man he loves and god help him if he isn’t going to take advantage of that opportunity.

    Briefly, he wonders if he’s taking _too_ much -- if this might not be fair to Lance, to use such a terrible situation to fulfill his own selfish desires -- but then Lance’s lips press against his again, softly, and he _caves_ . Rocks up on his toes at the same time he pulls Lance closer, kisses him deeper. And his heart _aches_ because he’s spent so long falling in love with Lance and he’s managed to ignore it well enough up to this point, but now he’s crossed a line that he can’t uncross, and he only realizes now how irrevocably _fucked_ he is.

    Lance peppers little kisses all across his cheeks and he can’t suppress the ecstatic smile that breaks out across his face at the sensation. “How much practice do you think we need?”

     _I love you_ , Keith wants to say, but instead he responds, “A lot.”

    They slow down after several minutes like this, winding down into something softer after they tip over onto the bed and almost wake Kah-Yih. Kisses more ephemeral as Lance sits with his back to the wall and Keith hovers over him with a knee on either side of his hips.

    It’s _warm_ , pleasant in the way his heart swells with every brief touch of their lips, as his arms wind lazily over Lance’s shoulders and Lance’s fingers play through his hair.

    Eventually, the day catches up with them, and with the knowledge that he has to be at least somewhat alert for their meeting in the morning, Keith’s forehead touches Lance’s shoulder and his eyes slip closed. He feels Lance twirl a strand of his hair around his finger and let the resulting curl bounce loose. “It’s late,” Lance murmurs, lips by his ear.

    Keith hums and nods haltingly, head heavy with exhaustion. “I know.”

    “We … should probably go to bed.”

    “I know,” Keith says, but he still doesn’t move for several seconds -- not until Lance snickers and presses a kiss to his cheek, and suddenly Keith is _months_ in the past, having sleepily dragged himself to his room with much assistance from Lance after a movie marathon, and there are warm lips touching his forehead and the sensation is _new_. So new it doesn’t really register for several minutes, and then his heart rate skyrockets and he’s sleepless, wondering: _What does it mean?_

    The question is louder, now. Deafening, but he can’t ruin this by asking.

    So he shuffles back enough that Lance can get off the bed and go back to his own room, reluctant. Something about tomorrow feels wrong. Dangerous. There’s a finality to the thought of what they have to face when they wake in the morning, and while he’s glad to not be facing it alone then, he’s apprehensive at the thought of facing it alone _now._

    “Wait,” he says, before he can think better of it.

    Lance pauses, legs dangling over the edge of the bed, and looks over his shoulder at him.

    “You should stay.” God, _fuck_ , what is he _doing_? “I mean, screw it, right? I’m probably going to be forced to marry some crazy d-bag prince tomorrow, anyway.”

    He means something by that, something deeper, that he isn’t quite able to decode himself. Lance seems to take it differently than he intends, frowning as he turns fully towards him again. “No, you’re not. Don’t talk like that.”

    He tries to play it off with some short laughter, but the frown only deepens. “C’mon, you heard him. If he doesn’t get his way, we don’t get an alliance.”

    “No alliance, then,” Lance says, low, like it’s that easy.

    Keith sighs, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. “That’s not … there are people out there who still need our help, Lance. There are still Galra loyalists ravaging the galaxy. We can’t just abandon our mission.”

    “We wouldn’t be abandoning it.”

    “You know what I mean.”

    “That just because one group of weird harem people from one planet have a … a _monopoly_ on half the systems around them, we’re doomed to fail without their help?”

    The nerves come crashing back over him, nearly taking his breath away. “That’s exactly it. We can’t jeopardize the alliance that we need to get all of those planets and systems on our side, even if it means making some sacrifices along the way,” Keith insists, though his body language betrays his lack of confidence in this ideal as he picks nervously at the hem of one of the comforters in the nest.

    The mattress shifts as Lance leaps to his feet. “No! Don’t start with that. There’s no … there’s none of this ‘mission over individual’ self-sacrificing _crap_ here. You're the leader of _Voltron._ The paladin of the Black Lion. What do you think we're going to do without you?”

    “I'm sure Shiro could pilot Black again. Some things are more important than just one person,” he says. He tries to avoid watching the way Lance has started pacing and tugging at his hair.

    “Absolutely _not!_ There is _nothing_ more important than-- you know what?” His grip on his hair loosens as he drags his hands down to rub at his eyes instead. “We don’t even need to be having a conversation about this. Because in the morning we’re going to tell that dude to go fuck himself, and that we’re married and that means you’re off-limits, and if he’s that desperate he can find someone else.”

    “And you think he’s just going to take that?”

    “He’s going to have to, because he’s not getting a different answer from me.”

    “Lance, I’m not--” Keith has to remind himself to breathe; to be rational, and calm, and make sense of the situation. “Come back. Sit.”

    Lance moves like a rubber band snapping back into place. He’s by Keith’s side again in an instant, and for that much he is grateful. At least they can both try to be reasonable.

    “I’m not going to throw away something that could end a war we’re already _so close_ to winning, so much sooner than we’d hoped. I’m not going to ruin it over something as stupid as my … bodily autonomy or whatever.” Keith is terrified by Yuel’dra’s proposal -- he’s made that much clear. But he also isn’t naive. If he’s the pawn that’s going to start the end of the game, then so be it. Fuck being afraid; fuck freedom. Something needs to give during their negotiations tomorrow.

    He’s the Black paladin of Voltron, and this is his decision to make.

    Warm fingertips touch his cheek. When he turns his head back towards him, he’s shocked to find tears glistening on Lance’s face.

    “Lance, I--” his voice breaks.

    Lance kisses him.

    ‘I’m sorry,’ he tries again to say, because he knows they’ve already been through so much, and if things don’t work out in their favour in the morning, another change will take place within the heart of Voltron. But Lance stops him, again, and the way he kisses Keith even when they’re just playing pretend makes him desperately, _desperately_ wish it were real.

    If ever Keith thought himself deserving of love, he’d want it from Lance, and nobody else.

 

* * *

 

 

    Even though Keith has started grade eight, and he’s no longer in his class, Mr. Byrd still schedules tutoring sessions at the cafe with him. In fact, as far as Keith is aware, Mr. Byrd has made a point of keeping up with all his former students in some way or another.

    Sometimes they work through whatever topics Keith is struggling with (he isn’t behind in much anymore, but sometimes he says he is just to have an excuse to keep his attention). Sometimes they sit and chat for hours. Keith has never been the most open person, and while he’s reluctant to share much about his life, they manage to find other things to discuss.

    “Did you hear about the Galaxy Garrison’s latest plans?” Mr. Byrd asks as Keith sits down across from him in the booth. A newspaper glides across the smooth surface of the table towards him.

    “The Kerberos mission?” Immediately, Keith’s eyes are alight with interest.

     _Heard_ about it? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since yesterday, when the news came out. Of course, Mr. Byrd probably knows this, but he latches on to the opportunity to be the one doing the teaching, for once. “That’ll be the farthest _any human_ has travelled, ever.”

    “What’s the intent?”

    Keith shrugs. “That hasn’t been announced yet. But…”

    “‘But’?”

    “I bet they’re probably going to look for aliens,” he whispers conspiratorially.

    The smile on Mr. Byrd’s face is equal parts amused and excited. “You think so? What kind of aliens might we find near Pluto?”

    Keith doesn’t have to think long about this -- he’s already spent the better part of the morning dwelling on it. “Well, it’s cold.”

    “Mm-hm.”

    “The atmosphere is totally different, too. There’s nothing that could keep an animal or a plant alive, not like the kind from Earth, obviously.”

    “That makes sense to me.”

    “So it would have to be the microscopic kind of aliens. Like bacteria and stuff. But different than what we have here. And then maybe if we put them in a better environment they could evolve into something better, right? Like a space flower. Or a space wolf.”

    Their drinks arrive, and before Mr. Byrd can ask him anything else, he says, “Sir?”

    “Yes?”

    “I wanted to join the Garrison,” he announces quietly. He already knows it just isn’t realistic, but he’d like for at least one other person who isn’t Shiro to understand that he can still have dreams despite his circumstances.

    Mr. Byrd just smiles and nods, eyes bright. “You’ll be a good fit. You’ve got everything they’d need, and a curious and creative mind to boot.”

    Ah, he seems to misunderstand. Keith shakes his head. “No, I mean, I _was_ going to.”

    “‘Was’?” There’s the _clink_ of a mug being set down on the table. “What changed?”

    He _does_ have to think that one over for a moment. Nothing really _has_ changed, except his perception of himself and the fact that reality has done the mental equivalent of punching him in the gut. On some occasions, that actually, physically, has happened. “Well, I just…” he tries, glaring at his mug of untouched hot chocolate, “I’m just … too stupid,” he admits with a sigh. He knows Mr. Byrd doesn’t like when they talk this way. “And I know they’re not going to accept someone like me.”

    He doesn’t have to look to know Mr. Byrd is frowning when he speaks. “And what is ‘someone like you’, exactly?”

    “I, um.” _Bad,_ he could say, but that comes with explaining, and explaining comes with remembering, and remembering always makes a horrid prickling feeling crawl up his chest until it feels like his throat is closing and his legs are numb. “Like, I’ve been expelled too many times, and I get into fights, and I have bad grades, y’know. Stuff like that. They’d just be wasting their time trying to teach me.”

    “Oh,” says Mr. Byrd, folding his hands on the table top. “I suppose I must also be wasting my time, then.”

    Keith’s head snaps up so fast his neck cracks, ready to assure Mr. Byrd that he’s _wrong,_ and that isn’t the truth, but he can tell as the words die on his tongue that he already _knows_ and is just trying to make a point.

    Keith isn’t _entirely_ stupid; he understands the point, and he decides not to mention his own shortcomings in the future.

    Mr. Byrd assures him he doesn’t have any shortcomings to ‘forget about’, anyway.

 

*

 

   His foster parents are nice, if a little withdrawn. Reasonably -- they’re busy, and with several foster kids and working jobs with odd hours, they don’t have much time for the kids outside of occasional “family” meals.

    Keith doesn’t mind. He spends his time (which he would otherwise use trying to convince these parents not to discard him) in the room he shares with one of the boys, trying out the new set of markers, pens, and ink Mr. Byrd gave him for his birthday.

    Sometimes he brings the pieces he’s proud of to his former teacher. Intricate floral patterns in black ink, concepts for aircraft and spacecraft he wishes he had the skills and resources to try building models of. Abstract works in colours he “just thought looked nice together”.

    There’s a whole wall dedicated to student creations behind Mr. Byrd’s desk, and it makes his heart warm to see something he created displayed proudly like that.

    He doesn’t have many memories of his father, but he’s convinced this must be what it’s like to have a dad.

    And it really is with almost fatherly concern that he reacts to finding Keith and some of his classmates drinking under the dilapidated bleachers after school one day. They all have enough respect for him to pay attention (and the decency to look sheepish) as he lectures them on poor choices and illegal activities and so on and so forth.

    Keith is amazed to find, the next morning, that the incident wasn’t reported to the school.

    While he doesn’t completely lack common sense, he does (for some reason) think it’s a good idea when his classmate offers him a bottle of warm beer to take home a couple weeks later. It can’t hurt anything, he figures -- it’s just booze, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, and he likes the pleasantly warm feeling it gives him, the same way he liked it when he tried pot for the first time.

    He doesn’t consider the repercussions of being caught with beer in his foster home until Elena is already there, shaking her head, asking what on Earth he was thinking.

    Well, he was thinking that someone was gifting him something, and he wasn’t going to be rude by refusing.

    It’s a little too late for using the defense of basic manners, though.


	7. Let's Finish What We've Started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance being a fantastic strategist and doting husband, while the Team gets Punk'd

 

* * *

 

 

    Keith wakes up to blue.

     Sometimes, even after all this time spent drifting through space together, he’s taken aback by how gorgeous Lance is. Everything about him looks _good,_ always. He’s almost jealous.

     Lance reels back when he realizes Keith is awake, and Keith knows he only imagined the softness in his gaze the split-second before that.

     “Morning,” he mumbles, yawning as he stretches out, the joints in his shoulders and arms popping. He’s careful not to disturb Kah-Yih, who’s curled up with his face hidden against Lance’s stomach and his back pressed to Keith’s chest.

     Lance smiles and says, “Good morning!” and he honestly wishes they could do this forever. 

     “I had a thought,” Lance adds. Keith raises an eyebrow. “Do you think Pidge and Hunk know about … this?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Like, us being pretend married. Do you think Shiro told them?”

     “Wait, back up,” Keith whisper-shouts, Kah-Yih making a disgruntled noise where he’s stretched out between them. “How much of last night did they see?”

     Lance shrugs as well as he can while lying down. “Pretty much just you going all mama lion on Yu-whatever.”

     “Okay. Why does it matter if they know about the other stuff?”

     Lance groans, exasperated. “I have _plans,_ Keith. I have _ideas._ I need to know.”

     “Ugh. Gimme a sec.” He reaches down to where his jacket has been discarded on the floor and fishes his Punk-phone out of the pocket.

      _‘Do Pidge and Hunk know about our arrangement?’_ he sends to Shiro.

     The reply is instantaneous.

      **_Shiro:_ ** _No._

**_Shiro:_ ** _Allura doesn’t have the details either. Please do exactly what I think you’re going to do._

     What does Shiro _think_ they’re going to do? He risks a glance up at Lance, who is reading his texts over his shoulder, and the mischievous grin plastered on his face is enough to strike fear into his heart. “Oh god, what are you planning?”

     “We’re _married,”_ Lance says, grin growing wider. “And no one else knows about it.”

     “So--? _Oh.”_ he can’t help it when he starts laughing, even though it definitely wakes up Kah-Yih, who chirps aggravatedly and slams his hind leg right into Keith’s gut. “Oh. What are you … what are we doing?”

     “I want to make it the most disgustingly sappy, biggest deal, totally in-your-face thing they’ve ever had to put up with. And I want them to be _shocked.”_

     Now, normally Keith would be put-out by the idea of taking PDA to extremes like that, but then again, this whole relationship is fake so once everything is said and done he can brush it all off as a joke. And maybe (maybe) he just really likes the idea of Lance fawning over him. 

     “Let’s Addams-family the _hell_ out of this,” he agrees, and Lance whoops.

     “I get to be Gomez.”

     “Lance, you’re already the most Gomez-like person I’ve ever met.”

     “Aww.” Lance wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “That’s so flattering, darling.”

     “Ew.”

     “You agreed to this, light of my life.”

     Keith won’t admit to blushing at that, but Lance pats his cheek with a smug grin and crawls out of the bed, taking Kah-Yih with him and laughing the whole way. “Hurry up and get ready so we can escort each other to breakfast like complete losers.”

  


     Dead silence.

     Hunk’s spoon clatters on the tabletop, spewing his breakfast goop (“oatmeal”) all over his front and Pidge’s arm. Pidge, on the other hand, is gaping at them with her mouth full, giving them an unfortunate view of her half-chewed food.

     Allura is _pale._

     In his peripheral vision, Keith can see Shiro and Coran huddled together at the end of the table, shaking with the effort of containing their laughter.

     “Wh-- you--” Hunk starts counting something on his fingers. “This isn’t… when did you -- _what?”_

     Pidge rounds on him. “Do you know about this?!”

      _“No!”_

     “What the _fuck?”_

     Keith is red all the way to the tips of his ears and he’s trying so hard to fight it, but he takes comfort in knowing that Lance, whose face is mere centimetres from his own, is blushing just as much. He presses another kiss to his cheek and Keith beams, and really, it’s not going to be hard to sell this at all, he thinks. 

     Finally, Shiro can’t hold it in anymore and throws his head back, positively howling. “I’m sorry!” he says, wiping his eyes. “I know this isn’t a good situation. But their faces--” he snorts (actually _snorts)_ and has to stop to take a deep breath. 

     Keith’s trying _really hard_ not to think about how this isn’t a good situation; the fact that Coran is also laughing hard enough to cry and Allura looks like she’s about to faint is definitely helping. 

      "Oh, haven’t you heard?” Lance winds an arm around Keith’s waist and pulls him in closer. “We’re married!”

     Hunk goes down. He tips sideways out of his chair and hits the floor with a thud.

     It takes Pidge a second to even turn her head to look at the empty space he was just occupying, blinking owlishly. “What the fuck?” she says again, under her breath. 

     Now Keith can't help but laugh, tuning out the sound of Lance's voice beside him asking if his friend is alright. 

     “What the fuck?” Allura says, too, clearly just repeating after Pidge in the midst of her bafflement. This sends Lance into a fit of laughter to rival Shiro's. 

     Kah-Yih, having spent the last couple minutes wandering circles around their legs, digs his claws into Keith's jeans and tugs. “Whudda fuck?” he echoes, throwing his other hand out to the side in a gesture that almost perfectly mimics something Lance would do.

     That shuts them all up real fast. 

     “Don’t react,” Lance murmurs in his ear, then leans down to scoop the impatient kit into his arms. “What the _heck,_ indeed. Making you wait for breakfast. What monsters we are.”

     Kah-Yih blows a raspberry at him and grins. “Whadde heck?”

     “Hungry?”

     “Hub-gry!”

     Well, crisis averted. Keith hopes. 

     “Can someone please explain?” Pidge snaps. Hunk grumbles something from where he's collapsed on the floor, and Pidge nods along. “Yeah, exactly, when did you two find time to get married? How long has this been going on? Why weren't we informed?”

     Keith tries to respond, but Pidge’s eyes narrow dangerously and his jaw snaps shut. “Is that what that argument last night was about?”

     It's like all of Keith's energy is drained with the utterance of a single question. He sighs and sinks into the chair beside Kah-Yih's. “Yeah,” he says, looking to Lance for guidance.

     Lance shrugs. “We had our fun. Joke's over now.”

     Hunk’s head pops up on the far side of the table. “Joke?!” he screeches. 

     Lance makes a face. Like he's trying not to laugh but also trying to maybe look apologetic. “We're not actually married.”

     The silence resumes, aside from the wet plopping of Kah-Yih slapping globs of space oatmeal onto his high chair tray. 

     “....Why--” Allura starts, then puts a hand to her temple and shakes her head. “Oh, the… oh. No wonder you seemed so shocked after speaking with Qindra, Shiro.”

     “It was kind of the only way we could get the prince to back off,” Lance explains. 

     “Didn't quite work out, though,” Keith adds. “He's still mad.”

     “Someone please explain,” says Hunk, who has dragged himself up from the floor and back into his chair. He's trying to scrub oatmeal off his shirt.

     They give the rest of the team a watered-down version of last night’s events, omitting some details (only Shiro and his stupid knowing looks get to have any clue about those details).

     “So, if anyone asks, yes, we are happily married, and have been for a while,” Lance finishes, reaching across the table to wrap his hand around Keith’s. “Isn’t that right, pookie?”

     Keith rolls his eyes. “I lied. You are the _worst_ Gomez, you mushy sack of sh....” He makes eye contact with Kah-Yih, who is staring into his soul like he’s developed some kind of swear-word prescience. “...Sap. You mushy sap.” 

     Kah-Yih returns to his oatmeal.

     ‘What the hell?’ Keith mouths over the top of his head. Wide-eyed and equally confused, Lance shrugs. 

     “Kids learn by mimicking, right? He’s just … trying to figure out how to be like us, maybe.”

     “Yeah, I don’t think pretending you’re married is going to be a problem at all,” Pidge interrupts.

     “It isn’t?”

     “Not at all,” she repeats, swirling her food around her bowl with a satisfied smirk while Hunk elbows her ferociously in the side.

     Lance scoffs. “Maybe it’s easy for you guys. Imagine having to pretend to be married to _Keith.”_

     “Wow, fu-- _rude,”_ Keith snaps, flicking a chunk of oatmeal goop at him. “It’s worse being married to you.”

     “You are literally killing me,” Pidge mutters.

     Breakfast goes fine after that, aside from the underlying tension that thrums underneath everything as Coran, Allura, and Shiro make potent eye contact across the table. Keith is just in the process of scrubbing goop out of the fuzz on Kah-Yih’s cheeks when Shiro clears his throat and stands. 

     “Well, we have a meeting in a varga.”

     “We are aware,” Pidge offers.

     Shiro kind of grimaces and glances at Coran and that’s what sets Keith on edge. “You’ve been hiding something.”

     Now it’s Coran’s turn to grimace. _“Well…”_

     “Oh, and it was something important, too,” Lance gasps. 

     “More like, an _attempt_ at something important.” Allura folds her hands over each other and sits a bit straighter. “As we’re all quite aware, the Ma’haroviit are infamous for their particular ... model of society. And the way that they operate is harmful not only to the species and the planets in their system, but to every corner of the galaxy they’ve managed to infect in some way or another. There are countless places they’ve left a mark, some they aren’t even aware of. I’ll be attaching a file Coran and myself have been working on in a message to our, erm, ‘group chat’?” She gestures vaguely at her communicator. “I believe was the term.”

     “We’ve been working closely with a select few members of the Blade of Marmora on an infiltration plan,” Coran explains. “The goal is to dismantle the system from the inside, because any failed attempt to use brute force to make them submit would ruin any chance for us in the future.”

     “Hold on. If the system is so screwy, and the people running the whole operation are the exact people that we’re having problems with, and who you’re having a meeting with in a varga, couldn’t we just..” Hunk waves a hand around, “I dunno, kidnap them? Ask them politely to step down? Get rid of them somehow and replace them with something better?”

     “Kill them,” Pidge adds, and Hunk frowns.

     “I mean…”

     “No one is killing anyone. The royalty isn’t the problem. I mean, they _are,_ but you have to remember that their influence stretches beyond just one planet.” Slowly, Shiro sinks back into his chair and leans forward. “This is a massive system built almost exclusively on exploitation and power imbalances, and it’s so heavily reinforced that we couldn’t hope to take it down any other way. Even if something were to happen to the royal family on Kallinda E-17, there are still people who are just as bad or worse waiting to replace them. And that doesn’t undo the problems on every other planet that’s under their control.”

     “What could be accomplished by just _threatening_ to kill the people in charge on each of those planets?” Keith tries.

     “Do not think for one second that anyone who’s managed to rise to a position of power in that system wouldn't sacrifice the innocent lives beneath them for their own protection.” Allura’s vibrant eyes turn dark with ire. It’s like her hatred for these people radiates through the room -- Keith almost feels compelled to draw back in fear.

     “Then there’s the matter of their general lack of diplomatic skill. This is an organization of conquerors scattered across a system and into the systems beyond, all vying for power in various ways. Not a single one of them has any idea how a negotiation works because they’re all so busy killing and kidnapping and enslaving. Their idea of an agreement is that the other party doesn’t die.” 

     Pidge holds up a hand to stop Coran. “So Kallinda E-17 is just … in control of the most resources, presently?”

     “Essentially, yes.”

     “And what you’re saying is that these aliens are so accustomed to just getting their way that they don’t actually know how to have an alliance, they just have a list of demands and they expect us to lie down and take it?”

     “Yep.”

     There’s a long stretch of silence, then Hunk asks tentatively, “And we _need_ to do that because … because it’s one of our only chances to rescue, how many--?”

     “By our best estimate, upwards of a trillion enslaved individuals, not counting the citizens of each planet, who are generally unhappy with their conditions. Though it varies from planet to planet and colony to colony.”

     Lance pales. “A _trillion?_ You-- you guys brought us into this _knowing_ that they’d just be looking for a way to screw us over, and hoping we didn’t fuck it up too bad?”

     “Well, now,” Shiro raises a placating hand, “it isn’t that they’re actively trying to ‘screw us over’, just that they’re new to this whole ‘negotiating’ thing. The intentions that they expressed when we first contacted them were, well… manageable.”

     “What do you mean by that?” Keith asks. He’s faintly aware of Kah-Yih squirming his way out of the high chair. 

     Coran elaborates for him. “The -- they’re called the _manatnaliet_ \-- the people who hold power for reasons determined by tradition in the area. In the case of Kallinda E-17, that would be Qindra, and the members of his council. They are protected from the threat of the Galra empire by their wealth and resources, while the people they rule are left at risk. The alliance they’ve agreed to is, quite obviously, an attempt to appease their common people and keep them in their place.

     “It comes with the added benefit of protecting the possessions of the _manatnaliet_ from the Galra, which will further ensure that they don’t lose their status in their society.”

     “So by taking the risk, and putting all of us in a dangerous position where literally any crazy shit could happen, because these guys are clearly nuts, you’re hoping to free a whole bunch of aliens being held captive by… Qindra and his posse of jerk-asses?”

     Keith manages to tear his gaze away from Shiro long enough to see the way Lance’s eyes bug out; his leg bouncing under the table; the subtle shift closer to Kah-Yih as he angles his body that way. 

     “And why Keith?” Hunk demands. “I mean, whatever they’re trying to do, even if they’re only doing it because they really suck at just taking what’s offered to them, why are they trying to kidnap or enslave him or _whatever?_ Is that just because he’s Galra?”

     “That would be an oversight on our part,” Coran says, looking appropriately sheepish. “It does, in fact, have to do with Keith’s Galra genes.”

*

 

     “Are you _kidding me?”_ Keith kicks the stupid wall and immediately regrets it. He scowls as he hops on one foot and shoots Lance a look that plainly dares him to just _try_ saying anything about it. He at least had enough sense to wait until Kah-Yih was out of earshot to have his outburst. “That’s … that’s _nuts._ That’s impossible!”

     “Well, I dunno, aliens are weird!” Lance tries, but Keith glares harder because that was _not_ the right choice of words. “I mean, the Ma’haroviit specifically are weird as hell. Not you. You’re just Galra, which is…” 

     “I’m only _half_ Galra. I’m not … This is insane.” The fight drains out of him all at once and he slumps against the wall, sliding down until he can rest his forehead on his knees. “Why can’t things just be normal for five goddamn seconds?”

     “We’re living with aliens in a castleship, flying through space. That’s why. Oh, also the lion robots. That one’s extra not normal.” Lance pauses, and Keith knows the question is coming before he’s even opened his mouth again. “But like, actually, can you--?”

      _“No,_ Lance.”

     “Well, I guess you are only half Galra. The other half is just boring old grunge.”

     That catches Keith _so_ off guard that the laugh escapes before he has a chance to rein it in. “I’m not.”

     “Mm, you kinda are, though. Mullet, shitty fake leather jacket, can only experience two and a half emotions at best.” Lance counts off points on his fingers. “If I had to guess I’d say you’ve probably smoked at least one cigarette in your badass biker dude life.”

     “I think you’re severely misunderstanding what grunge means.” He still has to roll his eyes at that, but he can’t stop himself from laughing, and that draws a big smile out of Lance. 

     “Played in a shitty garage band?”

     “Hell no.”

     “Dang. I thought you would make a good drummer.”

     “Sorry to disappoint.” He turns his head so his cheek is squished against his bent knee. He feels … a whole lot less panicked about all the information he’s just been provided with, like Lance has flipped a switch he didn’t even know existed. And Lance is always good at that, sometimes without even meaning to be. It’s one of thousands of things he tries to appreciate about him every day. When they make eye contact, he holds it for a long while -- long enough to make Lance understand how sincere he’s trying to be. “Thanks,” he says, quietly.

     Lance sits beside him and tips his head back against the wall. He takes a couple of slow breaths, and Keith finds himself matching the rhythm. 

     “So, let’s say these people are shit at compromising.”

     Keith snorts. “They are.”

     “So, let’s say they _are._ It isn’t fair of them to expect you to just drop everything and join their weird cult society, no matter how inexperienced they are with negotiations. That’s breaking, like, the first rule of diplomacy.”

     “Oh, there are rules, now?”

     He doesn’t have to look to know Lance is rolling his eyes. “Yes, I’m making them up as I go. The point is, there’s no feasible way they’re just going to outright _take_ a Paladin of Voltron, unless they have a death wish or they’re really just trying to see how far they can push us. Which I think would mean they’re really just trying to gauge how desperate we are.” 

     Lance turns to look at him, and when Keith reciprocates, their faces are so close that Keith could count his eyelashes. “To see what else they can get out of a deal that’s already more than they deserve?”

     “Pretty much. That, or Yuel’dra is just a spoiled little fuck who doesn’t actually get any say in what happens today, and he’s just having a big tantrum because he can’t keep the pretty Galra boy like some creepy trophy.”

     Keith nods, then his brain catches up to his ears and he almost chokes on his own spit. _“Wh--?”_

      _“Anyway,”_ Lance continues forcefully, turning his gaze to the ceiling again, “Here are my thoughts: if Yuel’dra really wants to push the issue, and Qindra backs him up, we need to have a good compromise that will appeal to them.”

     “...Like?”

     “Like, maybe, challenging Yuel’dra to a duel? The only condition for securing the alliance would be  _participating_ , not winning, and if you win you walk away from the whole thing, easy.”

     “And if I lose?”

     “Well, now, that’s the thing.” Lance practically bounces away from the wall and twists around so his whole body is angled towards Keith. He plants his hands on his knees and leans forward. “So, I noticed while we were there last night that a lot of weapons were on display on the walls, and the _vast_ majority were swords, or things that at least _looked_ like swords. And you, my fantastic temporary husband, are like, a master samurai.”

     Okay. Keith is kind of apprehensive about where this is going. It must show on his face because Lance holds up a hand to stop him from speaking. 

     “This is where things might get tricky. We need to tell them that the _only_ way they stand a chance of getting a Galra _and_ an alliance out of this thing is if we get a chance at a fair fight between you and Yuel’dra. Then when we ask what weapons you want to use, you need to _really,_ like, deliberate over it, before saying the sword, so they _think_ that you’re not confident in your abilities, and Yuel’dra gets a boost of unwarranted confidence, but in reality you’re--”

     “A master samurai?” 

     “Bingo!” Lance shoots finger guns at him and winks. “And, of course, in the _extremely_ unlikely circumstance that you lose your duel, we’ll just leave, because the alliance would be fucked either way. And it’s not like Yuel’dra is stupid enough to try to hunt you down. You’re the Black paladin. He'd have to have a death wish.”

     “He’d have better luck finding and capturing a Galra loyalist.”

     Lance grins. “Hell yeah he would. So none of this ‘I’m going to sacrifice myself for the greater good’, ‘I have a martyr complex’ stuff. Got it?”

     “I do _not_ have a martyr complex!”

  


* * *

 

 

     This time, it’s _Keith_ who tries to start shit with _Lars._ This startles Lars enough to make him avoid Keith completely, which is perfectly fine by Keith’s standards.

     Once, Lars has the audacity to put his hands near Keith, and the noise he makes doesn’t seem the least bit human -- maybe something more like a feral dog growling. 

     Lars goes gray in the face and flees the room.

     It’s only two days later that Keith is escorted by one of the social workers to his bi-weekly tutoring session with Mr. Byrd. She gives him change for the payphone and her phone number written on a slip of paper, with instructions to call when he’s done so she can pick him up. 

     He slips into their usual booth and sets up all his homework for the weekend, starting with the completed work he’d like Mr. Byrd to review, and all the way up to the math test he has to study for. And he waits, patiently, because if Mr. Byrd taught him nothing else, he taught him to work on being patient. 

     It only takes about five minutes before he starts getting restless (he never said he’d _perfected_ the art of being patient). It’s another twenty before he orders drinks for both of them. 

     An hour, and his hot chocolate is long gone. Mr. Byrd’s coffee is cold. 

     Around the time they’d usually be wrapping up, he resigns himself to the fact that Mr. Byrd isn’t coming today -- whether he simply forgot about Keith altogether, or had something more important to attend to, he supposes he’ll never know. 

     He packs his stuff slowly, glancing at the door every couple of seconds like he’ll just appear there, happy to see Keith and asking questions about his life. 

     Instead, he uses the payphone money to pay for their drinks and starts the long walk home.

  


     Keith doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this.

     He _should have_ been prepared for something like this, because isn’t this how it _always_ goes? 

      _‘A heart attack.’_

     _This_ is why he shouldn’t let himself get attached to people.

      _‘Didn’t find him until this morning.’_

     He stumbles into the building his jiu jitsu class is held in, Elena left behind in the parking lot, and _slams_ his backpack onto the floor, kicking off his shoes as he sprints across the mats and launches himself at the padding on the wall, then the striking bag, then the teardrop bag, then back again. He continues cycling around until his knuckles are split and bleeding, and somehow that makes it easier not to cry, so he just keeps going.

 

 


	8. Welcome to Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Lance attempting to be good at the stuff Coran usually handles; potentially succeeding, probably not in the way they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am VERY tired and the reason is work and children and children AT work and I am just. So tired you guys. Does this chapter even make sense?? Did I even write it in English? Please let me know if I made mistakes anywhere because I don't have the mental capacity lately to figure that out for myself lol

* * *

 

 

     They leave Kah-Yih in Hunk and Pidge’s care while the rest of the team accompanies them to the meeting. Keith is understandably reluctant, but he sort of trusts Hunk, a little bit, to maybe not let this end in disaster, and the alternative is bringing Kah-Yih near Yuel’dra again, so this is the lesser of two evils.

     Kah-Yih just might know more profanity in a couple of hours. Whatever. Pidge can’t be stopped.

     The first half of the meeting, he and Lance sit in tense silence across the table from Qindra, Yuel’dra, and various members of the court while Allura, Shiro, and Coran work with them to iron out details of the alliance.

     Communication with and access to all the planets they ‘own’, including any that have been informally claimed, invaded, purchased, colonized, or otherwise obtained by the Ma’haroviit. Assistance from the military forces on any and all of those planets, up to 60% if their service is required for missions outside of the Ma’haroviit monopoly and full support for defense of any planets or properties within.

     No interference in the goings-on on any of those planets owned in any fashion by the Ma’haroviit (Keith cringes at that because he should have guessed they have slaves and harems and whatever else on all their other planets as well).

     The full and complete support of the entire Voltron Coalition where it is required or requested for matters involving defense, protection, upholding the goals of the Coalition, or any matter involving Galra or other similar threats.

     Keith tunes them out after a while.

     It’s a pretty damn good deal, though.

     He’s just afraid he’s going to fuck it all up for them if he doesn’t get his part of this meeting right.

     Lance’s fingers curl around his, thumb stroking over the back of his hand. It relaxes him instantly. 

     When they’ve fleshed out a contract that satisfies everyone, Qindra nods at Yuel’dra and turns to address Keith. “It’s my understanding that you’ve rejected the offer my son made you.”

     Keith sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I did.”

     “Well, that certainly does complicate things, does it not?” Qindra smiles in a way that honestly rattles him, tilting his head to the side as his eyes bore into Keith’s. “My dearest son Yuel’dra is one of my most prized possessions -- I should like to see him in my place someday.”

     Keith doesn’t want to ask what he means by that, or why, or why the hell  _ he _ has to be involved. He physically bites his tongue and stares Qindra down. 

     “This isn’t one of the terms we agreed on, though,” Lance says evenly. “Last night, Yuel’dra threatened to withdraw from the alliance because of this.”

     Qindra nods slowly. His calculating violet gaze travels over the various members of Team Voltron assembled before him. “Then let us see how he would handle the situation. Yuel’dra?” he says, inclining his head only slightly towards his son, who sits -- if possible -- even straighter in his chair, chest puffing out proudly. 

    “Of course, father. It seems to me that Voltron may require our assistance more than we require theirs.” Keith can  _ feel _ the way Shiro tenses beside him, and prays their company doesn’t notice. “After all, there are other ways to deal with civil unrest. Perhaps not  _ better _ ways, but other ways. You, on the other hand, would require firepower. Manpower. Where better to get it than here, where it comes in almost endless supply?” He stares directly at Keith as he speaks, a smug grin twisting his features. 

     “Unfortunately,” Coran interrupts, “that just isn’t how this type of thing works. This isn’t a time to be making demands of each other -- it’s a time to negotiate the terms of a contract. We refuse to accept a term that jeopardizes the autonomy and well-being of one of our own.”

     “Ah,” Qindra says then, leaning back in his seat as he tucks a strand of hair behind his pointed ear. “Forgive him, then. We are not accustomed to this type of … arrangement. What can we do, then, to ensure everyone is pleased with the outcome?”

     Now Coran smiles for real, and Keith relaxes because that can only mean he’s figured out a way to safely navigate these waters. “Let’s compromise on the matter. Something that satisfies both parties.”

     “I would, perhaps, accept a different Galra. Even another half-breed. You surely understand what vital resources they are for us.” At this, Yuel’dra gives Coran an expectant look. Keith turns just enough to see the way Coran swallows down his disgust -- he feels the same, honestly -- and inhales deeply through his nose.

    He can’t imagine that the royals are going to give them much more to work with. 

     “We aren’t in the business of offering living people in exchange for assistance. If you feel that there truly are other methods of dealing with the civil unrest on your planet, and on others, then perhaps that is where we should leave this.”

     Qindra’s gaze hardens and Keith sees the muscles in his shoulder draw taut. Lance beats him to it: “Can I make a proposition?”

     “Red paladin,” Qindra acknowledges, inclining his head towards him. “You may.”

     “What if we give you something to keep your people entertained for a while? And once everything is set in stone as far as our alliance goes, they’ll have forgotten what they were upset about in the first place.”

     “Such as…?”

     “A duel,” Lance gives Keith a  _ look,  _ and Keith’s heart races because he needs to  _ not _ blow this but his hands are sweating and he’s sure that his expression betrays his panic, “between Yuel’dra and Keith. Let them decide who gets to be the winner, here.”

     He  _ tries _ to make himself look appropriately appalled by the suggestion, like Lance’s suggestion is ludicrous and this is the first he’s hearing of it. He tries to force a reasonable amount of fear and uncertainty into his expression. He prays it works. 

     He can see Allura, interest piqued, leaning forward in his peripheral vision, chin on her hands. 

     Yuel’dra looks to his father for guidance, but it’s Qindra who responds, “What are your expectations, Red paladin?”

     “If we participate in a duel, that will be all you need to secure an alliance between us. Anything that happens beyond that won’t have any effect. If Keith wins, we walk away from this whole disagreement with nothing but the alliance we came for. If he loses, he goes with you, no resistance, but we still have an alliance.”

     “What makes you so certain it is a good idea to pit your Black paladin against my son?”

     Lance shrugs. “I mean, he can probably hold his own in a fight,” he says, nonchalantly. “I dunno, how good is Yuel’dra at fighting?”

     The look that the two aliens share in that moment is more than telling, but Keith chooses to ignore it for the sake of maintaining their facade. Qindra shrugs, too. “He is decent. It would be an interesting fight. And, as you seemed to imply, an entertaining spectacle for our civilians. Strange, how violence and bloodshed captivate so easily.”

     “Well, that’s that, then. Problem solved, right Keith?” Lance nudges him with his shoulder and Keith jumps in his seat.

     “I, uh… Lance, I don’t think it’s a good idea to--”

     “Nonsense,” Lance waves a hand dismissively and Keith watches as a malicious look spreads across Yuel’dra’s face, like a predator zeroing in on a particular vulnerable piece of meat. “It’s a great idea. If it makes you feel better, you can even choose the weapons you have to fight with. What do you want?”

_ “Lance, _ you know I’m not very--” Keith catches Yuel’dra’s eye and seizes up, and he should honestly be receiving some kind of acting award for this, because meek and vulnerable is just  _ not his thing. _ He sighs. “Uh … I guess, swords?”

     Qindra raises a hand and clears his throat. “Before we become too invested, I do have a concern.”

     “You do?”

     Okay, now Keith is actually scared  _ for real, _ because it just seemed like things were going smoothly and they didn’t really plan for interference. 

     “We can’t put a  _ mūztelšiu  _ in harm’s way.”

     There’s a beat of silence, then it’s  _ Shiro _ who speaks, apparently over the initial shock of Lance just commandeering that whole exchange. “You’re talking about Keith, right?”

     “Of course. These Galra are precious resources in our system. It would not please our people to see us send one into battle, and especially not to see one of their own rulers attempting to harm one.” Qindra says this like it’s obvious, like he’s talking about the stars in the sky or the air they breathe, and Keith’s claws dig into the armrest of his chair. 

     He _ barely _ stops himself from telling the  _ rat  _ that he’s  _ not a fucking  _ **_thing,_ ** but a small growl does build up in the back of his throat anyway. 

     Lance’s fingers curl over his forearm, a reminder that he isn’t alone and that nothing bad is going to happen, as much as it is a reminder that  _ they aren’t alone _ and  _ he needs to maintain his composure. _ The growl dies abruptly.

     “What should we do, then?” Lance asks, calm and steady even while Keith is struggling to rein in his temper beside him. 

     “Well, you would take his place, of course.”

     They both take a couple seconds to process, letting out a simultaneous, “Huh?”

     “Your  _ duel,”  _ Qindra clarifies, “between the crown prince and your Black paladin’s mate. Fifth light from our next star rise. If Yuel’dra wins, your Galra is to come to us with no resistance. If you win, you can keep the damned  _ mūztelšiu.  _ Your participation in our ritual is the only condition our proposed alliance will rely on. Is this agreeable?”

     “Oh,” is all Lance says for several seconds.

     This isn’t what they were planning.

     This isn’t what they prepared for.

     They’re going to have to start back at square one.

     Then Lance says, “Yes.” And Keith could lose it on him right then and there. 

     Lance doesn’t do  _ duels. _ Lance barely even does hand-to-hand. He plays video games and has contests with Hunk to see who can fit more alien marshmallows in their mouth, and he’s on designated “get the toddler who is clearly part monkey off of the high places he manages to climb to” duty, and he definitely  _ doesn’t _ \-- shouldn’t -- get his hands dirty with something like this. 

     Keith is the person on their team who’s supposed to do stupid shit like that, not  _ Lance. _

     He doesn’t lose it, though. He remains as calm and collected as he can manage, because even if Lance is the reason he’s mad, he’s also really fucking good at keeping Keith steady with just his presence. So he leans a little bit more into Lance’s space and nods, and trusts him, because that’s what he has to do. 

     “Yes,” he croaks.

     “Excellent!” Yuel’dra claps his hands playfully and gestures at one of the guards stationed in the room. “Secure the prize, then.”

     He doesn’t even have time to react before something heavy slams into his ribs and pins him against the table, as Yuel’dra’s deft hands curl over his throat and-- Keith lurches and growls. He  _ hates _ the feeling of hands there, but then they’re gone just like that and replaced with cold pressure. Lance is on his feet but the prince leans out of the way, back to his side of the table and out of reach. The flash of Shiro’s prosthetic lighting up captures his attention. The arm holding him in place disappears and he hears the  _ thud _ of the guard’s back hitting the wall as Lance shoves him off.

     He reaches up to feel the  _ thing _ they’ve fastened around his neck. “What is this?” he asks, almost without meaning to, because he could swear it’s just--

     “A collar, of course. Can’t have you taking off on me before our big day.” Yuel’dra runs his tongue over his teeth and stares Keith down.

     “A  _ tracking _ collar?” he says incredulously. Now Keith is starting to see the reality of how absolutely fucking screwed they are, and how much he’s screwing  _ himself _ over even if it is for the greater good.

     Though, if he knows anything about Pidge and Hunk, he knows they’ll have this thing off in no time. 

     “That doesn’t seem necessary,” Allura starts, but Shiro beats her to it, pointing his Galra arm directly at Qindra’s throat and advancing.

_  “Take it off.” _

     Qindra raises his arms as if in surrender. “It is merely a precaution. Our citizens enjoy a good show, and it helps us keep them preoccupied.” He tries not to think about the more nuanced implications there. Tries to resist the urge to touch the fucking collar, because it feels too restricting and fiddling with it makes things worse. “I’d hate to disappoint them. Besides,” Qindra clasps his hands together and sinks back into his chair, “we all have an alliance to worry about.”

     Shiro catches his eye and he sees the completion of his half-formed idea reflected back at him. That maybe this isn’t going to be worth it. That so many people are depending on them. That they have no idea what they’re getting themselves into. That they can’t sit idly by while such injustices unfold before them.

     That dismantling the system with careful and steady infiltration, the way the Blades have so meticulously planned, is their only shot. And that just cooperating, just for now, is going to have to be worth it. 

     But he can also see the uncertainty, as Shiro wonders if maybe Qindra knows what they’re doing after all, and is just playing with his food.

     “Are these conditions acceptable?” Qindra asks, gazing around at the assembled members of Team Voltron with unmasked anticipation.

     “Indeed.” Coran rises from his seat and extends a hand to Qindra, who reaches out to squeeze it. “Fifth light from the next star rise, and your position in our alliance is secured. You’ll find that Voltron’s presence is a tremendous help in quieting the nerves of your people.”

     “That is my greatest hope. So much fear from so many can often culminate in something … ugly. I’d like to avoid any incidents.” He relinquishes his grip on Coran’s hand, stands, and inclines his head to each of them in turn. “Thank you kindly. I’ll be taking my leave now. I hope you are well-practiced with the sword, Red paladin. I’d hate for our show to be short-lived.”

     That hits Keith like a passenger train, and he can  _ see _ Lance try not to react, too, because -- well,  _ fuck,  _ they agreed to a sword fight, didn’t they? 

     And a sword fight they will get, apparently.

 

* * *

 

     “Rhya, no! Rosa-- Keith, get Rosa, she’s going to break-!”

     Too late. The ornate statue in the back garden topples over and shatters on the pavement, chunks of stone and shards of blue glass in various shades skittering across the patio. 

     The twins have barely been here two days and are already wreaking havoc. They’re not much younger than Landon, this family’s biological son, but some toddlers just have an affinity for destructive tendencies. 

     Like Rosa, who -- apparently satisfied now the statue is gone -- plops down on her butt in the middle of the garden and starts chewing leaves off the cucumber plants. 

     He doesn’t know whether to sigh or laugh as he scoops her up and picks the pieces of slobbery leaf out of her mouth. Rhya darts past and he nabs the hem of her shirt before she can get out of range, and then their foster mother is descending on them, dishevelled and roaring with laughter. “Oh, you naughty--” she snorts, “you  _ bad… _ oh, who _ cares. _ That statue was hideous. You’ve done me a service. Steve likely won’t be so happy about that, but let’s get that mess cleaned up an’ give him a little less to worry about once he’s home, yeah? Keith?”

     He nods, carting Rosa off into the house while Shawna handles Rhya, then fishes the broom out of the mess in the laundry room. 

     Landon asks to help (begs and pleads and starts to cry when he says no), so Keith lets him hold the dustpan while he sweeps the remnants of the ugly cherub statue away.

     This is pretty much how his entire summer goes. He tries to prevent (or at least mitigate) the destruction of Shawna’s house while she and Steve work, between setting up sprinklers for the kids to play in and figuring out how to cook the basics like grilled cheese, and macaroni and cheese, and… anything with cheese. Kids love cheese. 

     He also has to keep coming up with increasingly absurd hiding places for his own belongings, especially the few art supplies he’s managed to salvage from Mr. Byrd’s gift to him. Grubby hands don’t really take sentimentality into consideration when seeking out something to ruin. 

     But at the end of the day, he has a gaggle of toddlers following at his heels who think he’s the best thing in the universe, who climb all over him and drool in his hair and call him “Keet” while they gaze up at him with big, imploring eyes until he caves and lets them have their way. He wouldn’t trade that for the world.


	9. Swift as a Coursing River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get ready for Lance to kick some alien ass. Pidge almost lets a "secret" slip.  
> Keith suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that IS a Mulan reference. Thank u for noticing.
> 
> I got high, pin-curled my hair, and threw the end of this chapter together at light-speed. Saturday vibes. I'll fix the spelling errors when I'm, hm, not high lol

* * *

 

 

     “What happens if we just try to fly away?” Lance asks, expertly dodging the broadsword Keith is using. Even with one hand behind his back, he’s impressing Keith.

     “We’ve been over this. Too complicated. It’s up to you, obviously, but there’s too much to consider.”

     “Yeah, like, a  _ trillion _ things to consider.” Their swords collide and Lance’s grip wavers. He grits his teeth and pushes back harder. “They’d find us anyway,” he adds, nodding towards the collar.

     “Yup.” Keith doesn’t want to give too much thought to that. He already can’t stop thinking about how easily he could have fought off that guard -- fought off Yuel’dra, even -- if only he’d had some forewarning. If only he’d been expecting it.

     The Ma’haroviit are nothing if not full of surprises.

     Lance takes advantage of the momentary distraction to deliver a heavy downward blow to Keith’s sword. It clatters to the floor at their feet and he scowls when Lance laughs.

     “What’s that thing Shiro always says about focus?”

     “Screw off,” he snaps back, only half-offended. “How about I tie your other hand behind your back and see how you fare?”

     “Ooh,” Lance breathes with a mischievous eyebrow-waggle, “you really like this whole rope play thing, huh?”

     A piece of his soul shrivels up and dies. There’s no way Lance doesn’t see how red his face gets. “Ew?” 

     “First rule of a healthy marriage is having open and honest conversations about your kinks and--”

     “Can we  _ please _ just focus, here?” He pinches the bridge of his nose and wills himself not to laugh. Lance is really getting a kick out of playing up the whole fake-married thing, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t entertain him just a little, too.

     Their teammates have other opinions on the matter.

     Lance, theatrical as ever, groans and rolls his eyes. “Fiiine. Switch, then.” He tosses the bayard at Keith and picks up the sword. 

  
  


     Kah-Yih won’t sleep. It’s like the first night they had him all over again. He’s inconsolable and Keith cannot for the life of him figure out why. And he’s tried  _ everything. _ A warm bottle, a new diaper, playing peek-a-boo, singing a song, another new diaper, wrapping him in blankets, skin-to-skin contact, cycling his legs, rubbing his back. He’s tried reasoning with him. Tried bribing him. He’s even tried putting him in the crib alone for a few minutes (that didn’t go over well). 

     It’s approaching midnight on the Earth clock and he’s  _ tired. _ He has a lot to do tomorrow.

     And Kah-Yih hasn’t caused him problems like this in well over a year. 

     Will Lance be pissed about Keith waking him up in the middle of the night for some  _ help? _ Probably not. Hopefully not. He’s already at his door, so he knocks quietly and holds his breath.

     Lance opens the door rubbing his eyes. It smears the face mask he’s wearing on his knuckles, but he doesn’t seem to care.

     “I’m so tired,” Keith says bluntly, because it’s true and because he can’t summon the brain power to be more specific. Kah-Yih is a sniffling, whimpering mess against his shoulder.

     “What’s wrong?” Lance asks, already more alert than he was barely two seconds ago. His eyes, flicking rapidly back and forth between Keith’s face and Kah-Yih’s trembling form, betray his concern as they reflect the vibrant blue of the safety lights. 

     “I don’t  _ know,” _ he admits. Kah-Yih gives a heartbreaking whine and Keith feels fresh tears spill over the collar of his shirt. His own eyes warm with tears. “I don’t-- what if he’s hurt?” The thought sends him reeling. “What if he’s sick?”

     What if Keith did something wrong?

     He snaps back to reality, unaware he’d even zoned out, when Lance’s fingers curl over the back of his head and around his shoulder to pull him into a hug with Kah-Yih balanced carefully between them. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s just fussy. Toddlers are brats, didn’t you know?”

     Keith has had a  _ very _ long day and an equally long week and the most he can do is let his head fall against Lance’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to compose himself. “You can’t be  _ sure,” _ he starts, breath catching. “What if…?” 

     A soft vibration rumbles through his chest and echoes against the column of his throat as Kah-Yih exhales. The kit’s body relaxes between them as the purr grows louder.

     “Oh.”

     “Well, I guess he just missed me,” Lance whispers playfully. “‘Course, no one can ever get enough of good old Lancey-Lance.”

     Keith doesn’t register the act of opening his arms to allow Lance to take Kah-Yih from him, too relieved and simultaneously too exhausted to care. Is that all it took?

     He wishes he would have brought him to Lance  _ hours _ ago.

     But within seconds of Kah-Yih being taken from his arms, he rears his head back and  _ shrieks,  _ and in a flurry of panic (he’s going to wake up the whole fucking castle with that racket), Keith shoves Lance backwards into his room and slams the door shut. In the same movement, he curls his arms around Kah-Yih as well as he can as a means of providing comfort. “No, no, it’s okay,” he tries to assure. “You’re okay.” He’s not positive that’s the case.

     However, Kah-Yih is quick to calm down again, and Keith heaves a sigh of relief as he drops his face down to nuzzle the top of his head. “You’re okay. Lance, I don’t understand what the hel--  _ heck _ he’s doing.”

     “I, um. I think,” Lance clears his throat and when Keith looks up, he is very pointedly staring at a wall. “I think that when we slept together last night-- I mean, not like that, but--!”

     “Oh,” Keith cuts him off, already privy to what Lance is trying to explain. “That… makes sense.” It would at least explain his reaction to Lance’s presence. “Fine.”

     “Fine?” 

     Keith grabs him by the sleeve and drags him out into the corridor, his other hand hovering over Kah-Yih’s back. “If that’s what he wants, then so be it. I just want to  _ sleep.” _ And, okay,  _ maybe _ he doesn’t really have a problem with Lance being in his bed. Maybe it was really  _ nice _ to wake up beside him this morning. Maybe he’s comfortable and warm and he smells nice and Keith has to stamp down the fact that he’s a little bit head-over-heels for the guy at least a hundred times a day.

     Sue him!

     Lance sure as hell doesn’t complain about being forced into the nest and Keith conking out instantly with his head on his shoulder, so it’s probably  _ fine. _

 

*

 

     “What the hell are you doing?” Keith demands, covering his poor ears to protect them from the assault of the music  _ blasting _ from the overhead speakers. 

     “Listening to General Shang’s melodic encouragements!” Lance shouts over the music.

     “I know what  _ song _ it is, Lance! I meant what the hell are you doing and  _ why?” _

     Apparently taking pity on him, Lance fiddles with the mp3-player and drastically reduces the volume. “I am  _ literally _ fighting for your honour, Keith. The  _ least _ you could do is let me jam to the  _ Mulan _ soundtrack while I practice.”

     Keith sighs and tries to hide the smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. Lance is so  _ ridiculous, _ and it never ceases to amuse him. He can’t honestly bring himself to be annoyed, here, because that  _ is _ kind of funny. “Please focus.”

     “Just for the record,” Lance says, punctuating the phrase with a finger waving through the air, “I beat  _ three _ gladiators while you were busy with your ‘child-rearing’ B.S.”

     “Yes, my  _ apologies  _ for bathing and dressing our child while you played with robots.”

     “Thank you.”

     “You are  _ un _ believable.”

     “Thank you.” Lance gives him a cheeky grin and Keith shoots him the finger. “Fight me?” he adds, winking lasciviously, and offers a broadsword to him.  _ I’ll Make a Man Out of You _ still thrums in the background.

     “How’s hand-to-hand sound?” Keith says instead.

  
  


     Keith has the headache of the decade. They’ve gone in circles all day about the stupid fucking collar he’s wearing. Even now, while he’s lying on the couch in the common room  _ trying _ to get some peace and quiet for both himself and Kah-Yih, who just started his nap, Pidge and Hunk are bickering in the doorway.

     “--because the readings we  _ can _ get are gibberish!”

     “I didn’t take a trillion engineering courses for nothing, Pidge! Once we get in there we can figure it out. It’s what we  _ do.” _

     “What do you think  _ I _ was doing at the Garrison? This is a human body we’re talking about. We  _ literally _ don’t know what’s going to happen when we screw around with that thing, and the only way we  _ can _ know is if we screw around with it in the first place. It could be rigged to  _ blow, _ for all you know!”

     “We’d have to find a way to protect him against something like that, obviously, but the fact of the matter is, you and I both know he wants it  _ gone. _ He’s not going to care about the consequences, so we have to manufacture ways to make the procedure as safe as possible for him when the time comes.”

     Do they honestly think he can’t hear them just because they’re  _ sort of  _ whispering?

     “This is all just  _ assuming _ that one or both of them decides to back out in the first place. Have you  _ met _ those two? They’re the most stubborn idiots in the universe!” Pidge complains, louder than the entire rest of their conversation. He doesn’t have to look to see that he’s being gestured at. “I mean,  _ honestly, _ they can’t even decide how to tell each other they--”

     “Guys?” Keith interjects, trying to get their attention  _ without _ waking Kah-Yih. “Unless you feel like babysitting the galaxy’s crankiest toddler this afternoon, I suggest you argue somewhere else.”

     Pidge gasps and he can  _ hear _ her slap her hands over her mouth. “Oh my god,” she says, muffled.

     “We thought you were asleep!” Hunk hisses.

_ “How _ am I supposed to sleep with you making that much noise?”

     “Sorry, we were just discussing--”

     “I know,” he interrupts. “Napping toddler, by the way.”

     They’re gone just like that, and Keith sighs and drapes his arm across his eyes again. He’s tempted to take them both back to their nest, but the only reason he collapsed on the couch in the first place was because his head hurt too much for him to walk that far. So instead he blocks out the light as well as he can and listens to his heartbeat throb in his temples. 

     It might be several hours or a few minutes later that Lance flounces into the room with a chipper, “Oh, dearest husband of mine?”

     Keith chooses not to comment on the fact that there’s no around for them to pretend for. “What?”

     “Coran says you’re due for a check-up thingy, and also you need to learn to check your Punk-phone once in a while.” Lance is much quieter now, having obviously realized that Kah-Yih is out cold, wrapped around Keith like his life depends on it. “That last part is from me, though. Is he seriously sleeping without me? I feel kind of unappreciated, here.”

     “Just for naps. He does  _ not _ want to be away from you at bedtime, trust me.” He risks lifting his arm from over his eyes as Lance’s weight settles into the couch by his feet, peeking out at him. “Can you text Coran and ask him if tomorrow is okay? I don’t have time to go to the med bay tonight.”

     “Can  _ I _ text Coran? I can literally see your phone in your pocket.”

     “That’s not very husbandly of you,” Keith retorts, and Lance pouts at him as he digs his own Punk-phone out of his jacket. 

     “‘Husbandly’ isn’t a word, jackass.”

     Keith just watches Lance shoot off a message to Coran and says, “Thank you,” instead of picking a fight, and instead of explaining that the  _ real _ reason he doesn’t want to do it himself is because his head is killing him and looking at a screen just makes things  _ worse. _

 

     He makes it through dinner like that, somehow, and Lance seems to recognize that something is off because he doesn’t pester Keith for a training session and Keith can’t find it in himself to offer one, which is… it’s  _ not good, _ not when they have a deadline, here. Not when taking an evening to relax could potentially cause Lance harm in the near future, and it would be Keith’s fault for not adequately preparing him. 

     But Lance isn’t bothered by this, or at least he doesn’t let it show, and when Keith stops to lean against a wall and press a hand over his aching ears (his  _ ears _ hurt, now, with little shocks of pain travelling up the sides of his head), he’s right there, lifting Kah-Yih into his own arms. 

     “Something’s wrong,” he says, sounding more concerned than anything, as Kah-Yih reaches back for him and says, “Keet?”

     “I know. I  _ know. _ It’s just--” he has to stop and take a deep breath when his ears start ringing and a splitting pain works its way through his skull, “it’s just a headache. I’ll be fi- _ ine!” _

     Fuck, it hurts so bad he feels like he might throw up. Whatever this is, it definitely isn’t a normal headache.

     “Okay, no, see, I knew something was wrong, but you’re just such a stubborn--”

     Lance doesn’t finish speaking because Keith hits the floor,  _ hard. _ Something sharp and ugly twists up through his jaw, past where his human ears would be, around the back of his neck and up to the crown of his head, before piercing  _ deep, _ and he doesn’t think before throwing out and arm and latching onto the nearest object -- Lance’s arm -- nails digging through the fabric of his sleeve and into his skin. Lance hisses and Kah-Yih makes a distressed noise in time with Keith.

     “Is it the collar? Oh my god it better not be the-- Pidge and Hunk wanted to take it off but they’re two stubborn idiots who can’t agree on anything, and if this is their fault I’m gonna kill them, I swear, I promise. I just need to-- I just need-- okay, okay, I’m calling Coran, and Hunk can--”

     A burst of static crackles through Keith’s ears -- engulfs his whole head -- and when he opens his eyes he’s in the med bay. 

     Something pricks the inside of his elbow and he gasps, raising a foot to kick away the blurred silhouette that’s looming over him. The only indication he has that he succeeds is a pained groan from somewhere below him a few seconds later.

     “Please don’t kick me,” he hears from Lance, who appears on his other side as a slightly-less-blurred figure. Keith blinks a few times to overcome the glare of the lights and grimaces. “We’re just trying to give you painkillers, okay?”

     “I could’ve dodged that,” Coran says from the floor. “If I had seen it coming, I definitely could have dodged that.”

     Keith’s too busy trying to figure out whether he wants to ask what happened or deny the painkillers to actually articulate anything. He just kind of stares at Lance, who wavers in and out of focus, and hopes he gets the point.

     “Your… well, your ears are changing, I guess,” Lance explains while Coran uses the bedframe as a support to right himself. “Back to how they used to be. Right?”

     “Right-o,” Coran flashes him a thumbs-up. “But it isn’t going to be pleasant, and at this rate it seems like it will probably take all night. So I’m going to give you something that will knock you right out -- you won’t feel a thing!”

     “No.” Keith doesn’t entirely understand -- he’s woozy, and it feels like there are hornets in his brain, and little shocks of discomfort snake up his spine every few seconds. He’s having difficulty hearing Coran, but he knows he doesn’t want painkillers. He doesn’t want to be poked with needles, he doesn’t want any kind of strong medication, and he definitely doesn’t want anything in his system that will put him to sleep. 

     Coran stops altogether. “Keith, I don’t think you understand--”

     “I don’t want any. I don’t-- just leave it. I’ll be fine.”

     “You passed out in the hallway! Is… is that  _ fine?” _ Lance sputters, gesturing out towards the corridor. 

     “It’s going to hurt,” Coran tries again. “It’s going to hurt a  _ lot. _ More than a bite from a venomous  _ gwiingwa’age _ during the alignment of the moons.”

     “I don’t care.”

     “You don’t--” Lance is pale-faced and wide-eyed.  _ “Keith, _ buddy, you can’t just  _ not… _ Okay, hold on,  _ fine.” _

     “Fine?” Keith eyes him warily.

     “Fine. What do you want to do instead, then?”

     Oh. He hadn’t really considered that. He just didn’t want Coran to drug him. But if there are  _ alternatives… _ “Do we have anything that’s just...like, Tylenol?”

     “A pill? We can find a pill, right, Coran?”

     “Well, that wouldn’t be nearly as effective as what I’ve got here for you, but I’m sure I have something that will…” he casts a tentative glance at Keith, “ease the process.”

     And that settles it. He gives Keith a little purple capsule and a water pouch, barely puts up a fight when Keith insists he wants to sleep in his own bed, and gives Lance very specific instructions about contacting him at the slightest sign of trouble.

     “I’m not a baby,” Keith mutters after Coran is gone and Lance is pretending not to hover as he climbs out of the bed. Speaking of babies… “Where’s Kah-Yih?”

     “With Hunk. And probably Pidge.”

     He should’ve guessed. The room tilts once he has both feet settled on the floor but he blinks a few times and moves resolutely forward while Lance follows closely behind.

     “I think he should stay with them tonight.”

     He can’t really argue with that since he’s not in any condition to be taking care of a kid, though he isn’t fond of the idea of leaving Kah-Yih with someone else for the night. Not because he doesn’t trust Hunk and Pidge with childcare, but because Kah-Yih hasn’t yet spent a night apart from him or Lance.

     It couldn’t be because  _ Keith _ is too accustomed to having Kah-Yih at his side.

     Somehow that makes the ensuing chaos much worse, even if a part of him is glad Kah-Yih isn’t around to witness it.

     He doesn’t want  _ Lance _ to have to witness it, either, but nothing will deter him. Keith all but shoves him out the door once they’re back in his room and he shoves right back, spouting off excuses about Coran’s wishes and being a good husband and  _ you’re the one who said I’m good at playing the role of nurse in emergency situations, _ (which, Keith counters, doesn’t apply here, because it isn’t an emergency, just a load of bullshit).

     “Well, maybe I can play the role of nurse in  _ non-emergency _ situations, too,” Lance purrs, winking lasciviously as Keith relents and lets himself be herded across the room and into the comfort of the accumulated fabrics in his nest. 

     The painkiller he took hasn’t done much, except create some kind of unpleasant background static to accompany the overall nightmare he’s experiencing.

     And if he thought he was going to get  _ any _ sleep tonight, he can have a good laugh at his past self about that one.

     The first varga consists of a lot of grumbling, tossing and turning, and trying to massage the increasingly ferocious pains out of his temples. Lance stays up with him through the whole ordeal probably because he’s dumb and didn’t think to sleep while he could. He offers games, but the light hurts Keith’s eyes. He offers to read to him, but the sound hurts his ears. 

     It’s really the migraine from hell, and with every passing second it sinks it’s claws deeper into his poor brain.

     When Keith scrambles out of bed and all but throws himself against the toilet to violently upchuck all the contents of his stomach, Lance is right on his heels, pulling his hair back into a bun and trying  _ (trying) _ to call Coran. Keith, still gagging into the toilet, gives him a look that says,  _ “If you call him right now I will make your life hell -- I  _ refuse _ to go back to the med bay tonight.” _

     Lance puts his Punk-phone away, either out of pity or fear for his life. “Look, there has to be something we can do,” he says, as quietly as he can manage, kneeling down beside Keith and resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “This-- this  _ sucks.” _

     Defensively, Keith bares his teeth, even though he knows he hardly looks intimidating right now, sweat-soaked and pale, shaking like a leaf. “If it sucks, I told you that you can just  _ leave.” _

     “No,  _ Keith,” _ Lance shakes his head, thumb rubbing almost undetectable circles on Keith’s back, “it sucks for  _ you. _ It sucks watching this, yeah, but I mean… there’s no way you don’t think this whole situation is crap for you.”

     “Did it once already,” he mumbles, before his stomach clenches harshly and he vomits again. He doesn’t know which is worse -- this, right now, hugging the damn alien toilet, or having to remember the process of his body changing rapidly in ways he had zero control over. 

     Having to relive it in reverse is also a strong contender. 

     When he decides he’s done throwing up (Lance dumps out the pail of cleaning supplies in the cabinet and brings it with them, just in case), he hobbles back to the bed and collapses into his nest, unexpectedly grateful to feel Lance’s warmth settle in beside him a few seconds later.

     “You gonna be okay?” Lance asks.

     Keith nods, and hopes Lance can see in the dim glow of the safety lights, even though it’s an outright lie. He’s never been  _ worse, _ he thinks, and it is  _ really, honestly _ getting worse with every moment. His ears are ringing. The room is twisting around him, the pale blue light warping through the space in ways he knows are wrong but is struggling to focus on. He has to roll from his back onto his side because bile burns the back of his throat. 

     He wants to reach up and tear his own skull open to relieve some of the rapidly mounting pressure, but he can’t seem to bring himself to move.

     Lance must notice how  _ off _ his breathing is, because he whispers, “You sure?” and leans up on an elbow.

     Keith shakes his head, biting down on his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain. 

     It seems to be for naught, because a split second later the pressure in his head reaches a breaking point -- there’s a  _ pop _ that might just be his imagination, then a burst of adrenaline as white-hot agony explodes across the sides of his head and he shoots upright, clutching at his hair like he can pull his own head apart and let it all out.

     Lance’s hands cover his and then slide away, reappearing across his shoulders and dragging him into an embrace. His forehead rests against Lance’s heartbeat and it’s only then that he realizes he’s screaming. 

     He can’t stop. 

     A tear drips off his chin, followed by many, many more, and he thinks that even if he could, he wouldn’t ask Lance to leave. He doesn’t like to be caught crying -- knows that often there are consequences, and that tears aren’t meant to be seen. But he can’t do this without Lance.

     And he  _ trusts _ him, which is big enough to make the pain fade for a brief moment to make way for the importance of  _ that. _

     He curls one hand into Lance’s shirt in a silent plea for him to stay.

     Lance presses a kiss to the crown of his head and Keith knows he isn’t going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

     “No, you can’t just go barefoot, you need sandals!” Keith tries to explain for the trillionth time. 

     Landon giggles and shakes his head. “Nnno!” he says around a peal of laughter. His duck floatie slips from around his waist and bounces on the cement. “You can’t have  _ shoes _ in the  _ water!” _

     “It’s a sprinkler.” Keith picks the sandals up and holds them in front of Landon. “You can’t run around in the grass without shoes on.”

     There’s a commotion to his right and he looks over the see Rhya and Rosa, also ready to go with swimsuits and water toys, scrambling to take each others’ shoes off. “No shoes!” they chant. “No shoes!”

     He can’t explain what being a bad influence is to a four year old, and he definitely can’t explain the concept of making your own decisions to two toddlers, so he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Manipulation it is. He shrugs. “Okay. No shoes. But I didn’t get rid of the picker bushes when I pulled the weeds, so…” he shrugs again, “have fun stepping on them.”

     Landon goes pale so fast Keith is surprised he doesn’t faint. “Gimme… gimme my shoes!” he screeches, snatching them from Keith and falling over himself is his haste to put them on.

     Keith grins and holds the door open for the kids as they all dash into the backyard, squealing with delight when they reach the sprinkler Keith just set up for them. And they  _ all _ have shoes on, for the first time this summer. He’ll call that a win.

  
  


     Six days, not counting the weekend. 

     That’s how long it takes Keith to get himself kicked out of high school.

     Now, it wasn’t a one-man operation -- there were other parties involved. But he’s the kid with the records, with the bad temper, with the history. The one with the file that follows him everywhere and affords him no privacy. 

     He doesn’t even know the  _ name _ of the kid who tried to trap him in a locker. He doesn’t know the names of _ most  _ of these kids. A lot of them think his name is Akira because his teachers didn’t read their memos. But he doesn’t know  _ theirs. _

     They just know he’s the weird kid, and the weird kid is either named Akira or Keith, depending on who you ask, and he acted  _ weird _ after some douchey kid with spiked blond hair launched an elastic band across their homeroom last week and it hit him in the cheek. And apparently that’s his brand, now. 

     He’s used to it, of course.

     He’s used to the kids who catch his eye in the corridors and bow and say  _ ni hao  _ or  _ konnichiwa _ because of the way he looks. He’s used to not understanding jokes or sarcasm. To sometimes not realizing when someone is speaking to him. To being terrible at maintaining a conversation.

     He isn’t  _ used _ to opening his backpack to find a plastic baggie full of mud with a sticky note haphazardly reading, “besst mud apl py, frum landn <3” in barely legible crayon. But he isn’t surprised.

     And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t accustomed to getting hit, and made fun of, and antagonized. That’s just life.

     But it’s the kid who tries to shove him into a locker that really takes the cake. He kind of blacks out for a second (a second that his mind spends somewhere else, a long time ago, in a place he never wants to think about again) when he finds himself being pushed into the small space by someone much larger than him. He comes back to his senses when he feels the cold press of metal against his back, and instinct kicks in. 

     His knee hits its mark first, then his fist, then the heel of his hand slams into his chin and forces it up and away while the kid lets out an exclamation of pain. 

     That’s all it takes. The kid goes down, hands covering his crotch protectively even though it’s much too late. 

     “Don’t fucking touch me,” Keith seethes, looming over him as he writhes on the floor. 

     He doesn’t get a response, but he  _ does _ get an expulsion.


	10. Nothing Fucks With My--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to d-d-d-d-duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is looking like it'll be closer to 15 chapters at this rate. Whoops. You're in for some kinda TREAT in the next 2 chapters though.

* * *

 

 

     Keith is allowed to remain with Lance until he’s transported to the entrance to the arena, so he’s stuck watching a gaggle of aliens fuss over his clothes, his hair, his skin, and pretty much everything that _isn’t_ going to help him win this fight, because this is less of a battle for Keith’s honour and more of a show. 

     In their minds, at least. 

     In Keith’s mind, he’s regretting every decision he’s ever made, and wondering if maybe spitting in Qin’dra’s face and telling him to go fuck himself and his shitty (but useful) alliance is no longer a viable option.

     The alliance is useful, yes, and it’s _important,_ of course, but nowhere near as important as Lance’s literal, actual _life._

     “You’re thinking too hard. Your brain is going to start melting out of your ears.”

     Keith shoots him the finger.

     He’d love to share his concerns with Lance, but there are so many people around them, preparing to give the people a good show, he’s worried about how fast those concerns will find their way to the ears of royalty. 

     There’s a thundering above them as the gates are opened and thousands of aliens flood into the arena. The chatter is so loud it reaches them all the way down here.

     “Wow, that’s a _lot_ of people. Why do so many of them need to watch this?” Lance looks as nervous as Keith feels. It seems out of character for someone with an addiction to being the center of attention. “I mean, if it was dancing? Yeah, sure. But _sword-fighting?_ I barely know what I’m doing! Why couldn’t he challenge me to a dance-off? I’d _so_ win a dance-off!”

     “Lance.”

     “Do you have any idea how many dance classes I’ve taken? Ballet, Irish dancing, tap -- hell, I took a few _figure-skating_ classes. Abuelita always said, ‘Sport makes brute strength and little else. Dance makes precision, grace, and strength to match.’ Like, she was _right;_ any moron can learn how to play football, but if you take enough dance classes you can snap someone’s neck and do it _gracefully._ ”

     “Uh, Lance?”

     “I could probably still lift someone over my head if I needed to. Do you want me to try lifting you up? I bet I can do it. You’d just have to work with me a little, instead of going, like, dead-weight, which you’re really good at, by the way--”

     There are probably about a hundred other things Keith could do to interrupt Lance’s frantic, nerve-induced rambling, but surrounded by servants who think they’re married, and dolled up in all the kingdom’s finest fabrics and makeup, he’s inclined to seize the opportunity. He smashes his lips against Lance’s and Lance shuts up _real fast;_ he grabs Keith’s face and presses him closer. 

     Married life sure is fine.

     “Lance,” he says against a pair of lips he never wants to stop kissing. “You’re good at handling a sword. You’re going to be fine. Just go out there and kick his ass.”

     When Lance draws back, clear blue eyes bore into his. It speaks volumes that he doesn’t seize the opportunity for an innuendo. In a voice choked with fear, he whispers, “I’m supposed to kill him. I don’t know if I can kill the dude.”

     Keith gets where he’s coming from: Yuel’dra is a douche, sure, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to be killed. He’s merely a product of his environment, much the same way Keith is, and it would be hypocritical of him to wish death on someone who could have been better, under different circumstances.

     “You don’t have to,” he tells him, low enough that he hopes the servants don’t hear. “Just incapacitate him.”

     “Prize,” one of the servants says, gesturing at Keith, “come now. We will begin shortly.”

     His grip on the fabric of Lance’s shirt tightens. The lightweight armour over his heart rattles. Keith tries not to think about how easily a sword will pierce through that. The armour isn’t intended to protect, he knows. It’s intended to prolong the inevitable. Make things more interesting. “It’s okay if you kill him,” he says, urgent, “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Just … just be careful, _please.”_

     Hands curl over his shoulder and upper arm, preparing to drag him away, and the full force of the situation hits him. There’s a very real chance that Lance could die, and that this could be the last time he ever sees him, and what the fuck were they thinking?

     Fuck their alliance. Fuck relief efforts. Fuck putting the galaxy right, and loosening the Galra Empire’s seemingly unrelenting grip on the majority of it, and fuck getting rid of all the loyalists, and protecting the planets still at their mercy, and fighting to set everything _right_ again. Not for someone good like Lance. None of that is worth it, if it means he’d be gone.

     He’s failed the people most deserving of protection too many times to let this slide. 

     He’s resisting the servant’s attempts to remove him from the room, pushing himself forward into Lance’s space, preparing to speak out on the matter, when Lance shoves the hands on him away with a glare and kisses him (he’ll never tire of being kissed by Lance), easy and deep. He puts more into it than seems necessary, if this is all just an act, but Keith could never complain about Lance trying to make out with him in a room full of people, if he’s being honest. It feels good. Kind of possessive. Probably what Lance is playing at, given the current circumstances.

     The whole thing leaves him dazed enough as it is, but there’s an “I love you” whispered in his ear that shakes him to his core.

     He doesn’t remember that he wanted to put an end to all this until he’s being escorted into an arena full of cheering people and forced into an ornate chair directly beside Qindra himself. The King shoots him a hungry look, the kind he’s come to associate with a fear of being kidnapped and enslaved (still a possibility).

     Then Lance is stumbling into the arena with a shortsword in his hands and Keith is _shaking,_ faintly aware that the rest of team Voltron is probably somewhere nearby.

     Yuel’dra struts into view through a set of doors opposite Lance. The crowd around them erupts into a chorus of odd trilling and stomping feet. Yuel’dra puffs up at that, seemingly ignoring Lance in favour of returning the affections of his citizens. He sheaths his sword, brings his hands up the rest under his collarbone, and spreads them slowly outward in a sweeping gesture, palms up. The cheer from the crowd grows louder. 

     Lance looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. 

     Beside him, Qindra rises and the arena falls silent. “The terms of our alliance with the Voltron coalition are to be decided today in battle. The crown prince, as always, is to be honoured in any and all of his wishes, and to challenge that right is to invite punishment. You, Paladin of Voltron, have challenged his rights, and as such will not receive your alliance unless you participate in the necessary rituals. We thank you, today, for providing us entertainment in this regard.”

     Even from this distance, Lance looks pale. 

     Yuel’dra is grinning, waving at someone in the audience.

     Keith digs his claws into the armrest and bares his teeth. He wants to take the pompous bastard on himself, but he’s stuck in this damn chair with this damn collar around his throat like some kind of animal. It only pisses him off more. 

     “You may begin.” Qindra sits again, and just like that, Yuel’dra’s expression becomes deadly serious as he lunges for Lance, darting across the arena at a speed Keith could never have anticipated. 

     But Lance holds his own, and it makes pride swell in Keith’s chest when he meets Yuel’dra blow for blow, even though the nerves still linger underneath.

     Except that several minutes of this takes its toll on Lance, and Yuel’dra’s frustration at Lance’s skill becomes obvious in the way his fighting becomes something less structured and formal -- he drives an elbow down into Lance’s forearm at the first chance, and Lance’s grip on his sword falters.

     Yuel’dra shoves him backwards bodily and drives the sword at his chest before he can regain his balance. Keith can’t breathe.

     Lance parries. Yuel’dra screeches something bitter at him and swings the sword in a wide arc around towards his side. Lance kicks his legs out from under him.

     He can feel his heartbeat through his whole body, rapid and anxious. He wants to jump down there and intervene. He doesn’t know what the consequence would be. Would they retaliate? Would they hurt him because of his interference? Would they hurt _Lance?_ That almost isn’t worth the risk, provided Lance manages to win this fight. Otherwise, they’re losing either way.

     Yuel’dra’s blade swings low, near Lance’s knees, and he drops to the ground instantly, face contorted with pain. It’s only at the last possible moment that he lifts his own sword to block the one bearing down on him, and in that miniscule period of time all of Keith’s insides turn to ice. 

     He can’t do this. He can’t watch this. Lance is good at sword-fighting, sure, but not in the way Yuel’dra is -- not in the lifetime of training visible in the sureness of his movements or his comfortable grip on the sword, not in the absolute ease with which he targets every available opening and reads Lance’s every move as though he’s announced it. Even in the throes of a fit of frustration, Yuel’dra is a force to be reckoned with.

     Lance’s strength wavers as one hand dips back to stem the flow of blood from his leg, and Yuel’dra grins maniacally and pushes down harder. Their blades screech against each other as Yuel’dra’s slides down, down; until Lance can’t hold him back anymore and the swords slip apart, Lance’s sticking fast in the soil and Yuel’dra’s lodging itself into Lance’s shoulder.

     He’s over the barrier before he’s even aware of what he’s doing. The impact with the ground sends a shock through his knees, and he hasn’t even taken a step before the collar shocks him, too. It sends him toppling into the dirt, and the second it stops he’s up and moving again, even as a second wave of electricity starts building around his throat. It’s suffocating. Burning.

     His eyes water. He fights through it, gaze trained on Lance, on the way Yuel’dra’s eyes shine with delight and cruelty as he tears the sword from the wound on Lance’s shoulder.

     The sound of Lance screaming drives him forward. His hands curl around the collar in a subconscious attempt to relieve the pain, but then he’s in front of Yuel’dra, wheezing and trembling, the scent of burning flesh ripe, and the sword is already arcing down towards him when surprise registers on Yuel’dra’s face.

     It barely scrapes the arm he raises to stop it, because he also lifts his leg and kicks Yuel’dra backwards with all the strength he has left. 

     The electrical current increases in intensity. Or maybe he’s just becoming more aware. He keels over and spits saliva and blood into the soil.

     When he stands, he’s gripping Lance’s shortsword in his hands and Yuel’dra is barrelling towards him, screaming with rage. He parries, ducks out of the way -- stumbles as his muscles seize under the assault from the collar. He uses the position to his advantage and kicks Yuel’dra’s legs out from under him. 

     Shudders, and spits out more blood. He swears he can hear his skin sizzling over the incessant growling that’s overwhelming everything else.

     Yuel’dra’s back hits the ground. Keith can see him struggle to draw breath following the impact.

     He raises the sword with shaking arms and slams it down through Yuel’dra’s throat, watching his body convulse a few times in the aftermath before he falls still, eyes open and jaw slack.

     _“Fuck_ your alliance,” he croaks, throat burning.

     The shocks cease altogether so suddenly that it actually stuns him for a second. Then he sucks in a breath that tastes too coppery and bitter and whips around to where Lance has fallen onto his side, clutching his profusely bleeding shoulder.

     Keith has to crawl to him because walking is too much for him right now, and Lance whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut tighter when Keith rolls him onto his back. Then Allura is on Lance’s other side with a syringe in one hand and the crushed remnants of a small black box in the other. A remote, for his collar, he realizes distantly.

     He doesn’t mean to, but the adrenaline still pumping through his system won’t let him relax and when she touches Lance’s arm he slams his hands down on either side of his body and growls again. 

     “Keith,” she says, hands up, placating, “it’s just a painkiller. It’s okay. I’m trying to help.”

     He blinks once. Twice. Relaxes.  _Just painkillers for Lance. Lance is in pain._ He leans back just enough for Allura to get a good grip on Lance’s arm and plunge the needle into the crook of his elbow. 

     The discomfort on Lance’s face disappears instantly. 

     Keith moves his hand out of the way to put pressure on the wound on his shoulder. It’s _deep,_ worse than he was anticipating, and Lance is too busy blinking dazedly at the sky to notice he’s practically bleeding out. “Wow,” he murmurs.

     “What? Are you okay?” It hurts to talk -- hurts like _hell,_ and feels nigh impossible -- but he tries not to let that show on his face. 

     “I feel fantastic.” A loopy grin stretches across Lance’s face, his blood-spattered cheek, and a couple seconds later his gaze settles on Keith.

     “Wow,” he says again. 

     Coran skids to a stop beside them with one of the fancy floating stretchers from the med bay. It’s as though Lance is entirely unaware of being lifted onto the damn thing, because he just smiles wider at Keith and tries to reach out with his good arm. The golden makeup applied generously to his cheekbones and forehead, the bridge of his nose, his _jawline,_ is mixing with his sweat and blood, running in rivulets down his face. “You are _stunning.”_  

     “What?” Keith says dumbly, leaning heavily on the stretcher to help himself stand.

     Allura tries to pry his hand off of Lance’s wound, but there’s no way in _hell_ he’s letting go right now. Lance is hurt _badly_ and so doped up on painkillers he probably doesn’t even remember his own name. Anyone who tries to separate them now will be met with as much resistance as Keith can physically manage. “Keith, please, you’re injured as well. Let me give you some medication so we can get you to the med bay and help, _please.”_

     “No!” he barks when he sees the second syringe that Coran has brought along for him; the other stretcher floating behind him. “No, I-- just let me sit here. I don’t want a painkiller. I’ll just stay here. Take us there together.”

     “Are you an asteroid?” Lance says suddenly, and Keith raises an eyebrow at him. “Because you rock my world.”

     Keith doesn’t know whether to laugh or die on the spot, but at least Lance seems to remember that they’re pretending to be married and isn’t going to blow this whole thing -- especially considering a number of guards try to block their exit and they can _definitely_ hear Lance’s failed attempt at flirting.

     “That … doesn’t make any sense,” Keith chokes out, trying to fight the laughter because _god, fuck,_ it hurts to laugh.

     Lance shrugs, then giggles to himself. “Hah … _ass-_ teroid.” The back of his head hits the stretcher, and they’re moving again, down darkened corridors and back out into the light, where the castle looms in the distance. 

     “Keith,” Lance gasps, as if only just realizing he’s there. _“Keith.”_

     “Yeah?”

     Lance giggles again. “Have I ever told you that you’re, like, stupid hot?”

     “Lance, no one is listening anymore. We don’t have to act married.”

     At that, Lance’s entire face lights up, one hand squeezing Keith’s arm. “Oh my god, I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

     “Lance…”

     “No, like, for realsies.”

     Allura is barely containing her laughter as she hurries them up the ramp into the castleship. Keith glares at her. “It’s not funny,” he grits out.

     “It’s quite funny.”

     “That makes you the, like, second luckiest guy in the world, because you got to marry _all o’ this.”_ Lance gestures broadly at himself with the arm that’s injured, grimaces, and turns his wide eyes on Keith again. “I don’t remember our wedding,” he whispers.

     “We didn’t actually get married, we just-- god, how _high_ are you right now?” It’s becoming increasingly difficult to speak as he struggles more and more with breathing.

     “Cloud nine, baby.” Lance winks lasciviously and puts a blood-stained hand on Keith’s cheek. “You’re really pretty,” he says, then his gaze travels lower and he frowns. “You’re hurt.”

     “I’m fine,” Keith insists, even as his hands move to cover the burns he knows adorn his neck. “You’re worse off.”

     “I am?” Lance seems genuinely surprised at that, but Keith doesn’t have time to explain, because Allura is trying to work a pod suit over Lance’s legs while Coran preps one of the cryopods, and, huh; when did they get to the med bay? He leans down, fingers twitching over Lance’s wound as he tries to continue applying pressure, but he’s so tired; the adrenaline is wearing off and it’s leaving him lightheaded, the ache in his throat and lungs more pronounced with each passing second. 

     His forehead hits the stretcher right above Lance’s shoulder and he feels an arm curl over his back, rubbing circles; can hear Allura make a frustrated noise somewhere nearby. “You’re hurt, babe,” Lance says again, more concerned, and all Keith can do is hiss out a slow breath between his teeth. A trail of blood traces along the column of his throat to his jaw, gravity dragging it along. He hadn’t noticed he was bleeding, but the pain brings with it the realization that there are several wet patches where the collar digs into his skin, and all around it.

     Everything _burns._ He feels heavy and his breath bubbles oddly in his chest and he thinks he makes a tiny, discontented noise when the comforting weight of Lance’s arm disappears, but before he can process anything else he’s waking up to the piercing cold of the cryopod. 

  


* * *

 

 

     Elena spends about three hours lecturing him for not controlling himself better, in between phone calls and emails trying to get him into a new school _and_ a new home ASAP. 

     Apparently a lot of his problems could have been avoided if he had just learned to keep a handle on his anger. 

     He’s pretty sure a lot of his problems could have been avoided if his dad hadn’t died, but he doesn’t think he should say that out loud. So he sits there and takes it and waits for the verdict, and when she finally finds him a school in this district, even if she can’t get him into a foster home right now, she sighs and rubs her temples and sends him away for the night. 

     “And I’m taking you out of your karate class.”

     It’s jiu jitsu, _not_ karate, and Keith would say as much if he wasn’t so busy defending himself. And his black belt, which he’s only a few months from earning. Just a _few months._

     He should’ve controlled his anger longer.

  
     It could almost be funny that after a month in a group home lamenting his mistakes, he manages to end up somewhere worse than most of the homes he’s been in before. _Could_ be, if it wasn’t _so_ _awful._


	11. I Just Want You to Know Who I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone survived their ordeal on Kallinda E-17 but that doesn't mean everything is going to be peaches and cream from here on out.

* * *

 

     It’s been _months._ Keith still has nightmares about losing Lance in a gladiator pit on a foreign planet, or a swarm of aliens dragging him away in chains and _no, wait, that’s supposed to be_ him--

     He still remembers the way Lance had said he _loved_ him in front of the guards and how it made him weak in the knees. How he _wants_ that. 

     Sometimes he wakes up to find Lance’s head on his shoulder or his arm draped over his waist and his chest aches with the burden of knowing that someday Lance won’t be around. He’ll go back to his family on Earth or, _worse,_ he’ll find some girl to chase after and leave Keith emptier than before. He always rolls closer, holds tighter, and savours it while he can.

     He prays to anyone who will listen that Lance’s attachment to Kah-Yih will prevent him from leaving his life altogether. 

  


      _“Ugh,_ I _knew_ we shouldn’t have let him play with those other kids at the meeting. We don’t know _anything_ about his immune system.” Keith is pacing and wringing his hands. Lance rolls his eyes.

     “We know a _little bit_ about his immune system,” he says, “thanks to Coran and Pidge. We even got like three vaccinations into him. That’s a good start.”

     “He has a _fever!”_ Keith hisses, stopping dead and gesturing at the completely unfazed kit lounging in the nest, playing a game on one of the datapads. 

     Sometimes, Lance has to be the rational one, and it’s such a burden. “His temperature is literally like, half a degree higher than normal.”

     “Exactly!”

     “It could just be the blankets. Or maybe our room is too warm. Give him a cold water pouch; his temp will go down.”

     Keith resumes his pacing. “Lance, this is a _crisis.”_

And here Lance thought his mama had been overbearing. He pushes off the wall and intercepts Keith before he can wear a hole through the floor. “Take a deep breath,” he says, squeezing Keith’s upper arms to hold him in place. “He’s going to be _fine._ He needs to be exposed to different germs in order for him to _build up_ his immune system. We have crazy, high-tech alien medical equipment at our disposal. _Nothing_ is going to happen to him. Okay?”

     “Okay.” Keith nods and glances at Kah-Yih. “Okay.”

     “Good. _Great._ Can we take him out of quarantine, now?”

     Keith bites his lip, and kind of scowls, and maybe Lance is head over heels in love with him but he wants to shake him until he starts acting reasonable again. “...I think we should put him in a cryopod.”

      _“Keith.”_

  


     Lance’s stuff just kind of _ends up_ in his room over the course of a few months. 

     It _starts_ when Lance makes him take apart the nest to wash everything, and Keith tries to hide how anxious that makes him. This happens every time. He’s done it before, obviously, but he never gets used to it. And then for _days_ after, he can’t relax, even once everything is out of the castle’s washing cycle and reassembled in his bed. 

     “What’s wrong?” Lance asks, when he catches Keith bouncing his leg barely half a varga after they deposited everything in the washing system. 

     He doesn’t _know._ He jumps when Lance speaks, but he can’t explain that, either. 

     Kah-Yih is fussy on those days, too. He whines about trivial things and refuses to eat and clings to Keith more than usual. 

     It isn’t until Lance gets a sly look on his face and disappears for a while that anything gets resolved. He takes Kah-Yih back to their room to get the toy he left under the bed, and stops short when he sees Lance piling blankets and pillows on the bed. Everything here is blue, or has blue accents, so he knows it’s from Lance’s room, and he makes an inquisitive noise when Lance turns and makes eye contact. 

     “So, I talked to Coran. Did you know that Galra are _really_ sensitive to smell?”

     Keith is already very much aware, since he’s the one with the Galra senses, so he purses his lips and crosses his arms. “No, I hadn’t noticed.”

     “Quit being sarcastic. You’re washing all your comfort scents out of your nest when you clean it,” he explains.

     “Comfort scents?”

     “Yeah, like,” Lance turns back to his task, which Keith now realizes is reconstructing their nest out of his own bedding, “the team, you, me, Kah-Yih. And then it takes a while to bring it back up to, I guess, an adequate level of stank.”

     “Oh, that’s such a nice way to phrase that.” 

     Kah-Yih emerges from under the bed with the weblum doll he was looking for, and tugs on Lance’s pant leg. “I wanna help.”

     The smile Lance gives him makes Keith’s heart stutter. He lifts Kah-Yih and deposits him in the pile of blankets. “Sure thing, kiddo. How do you want it to look?”

     Kah-Yih wants it to look like ‘a toddler spent an hour jumping on the bed’, and Keith just shrugs and lets him have that. “So this is just to... what, keep me happy until we get the old nest back together?”

     “You got it,” Lance says, with a wink and finger guns. He removes his boots and joins Kah-Yih jumping.

     Keith doesn’t tell him they’re going to ruin the mattress. He thinks it, but they’re having too much fun for him to ruin it. And when Kah-Yih wears himself out and curls up to sleep in the disaster of blankets and pillows they’ve created, he crawls right in beside them. 

     Lance had the right idea -- it’s _much_ less unnerving to lie down in a nest that already smells like one of them, even if the scent is faded and somewhat stale since Lance hasn’t actually slept in his own bed in a few months.

     He hopes Lance doesn’t notice that he tries to tuck the blankets closer to him so his scent will rub off on them. 

 

     And when he sees little pieces of his nest floating around the castle later that day -- a blanket draped over Pidge’s shoulders, Allura wearing a hoodie that definitely isn’t hers, Shiro carrying a pillow for no good reason -- it’s like that hole in his heart that’s always been there gets a little smaller. Everything is deposited in neatly folded piles at the foot of his bed after dinner. He wipes at his eyes and Lance pulls him close and presses a kiss to his forehead, and Keith can only think that Lance is truly too good to be _real._

     

     Shortly after that, his bathroom counter is overrun with Lance’s products. Lance talks him into doing face masks every few days. Then Lance’s toothbrush, and his pyjamas, and then there’s a whole space in his closet full of Lance’s belongings. 

     The bedding he initially brought over ends up staying. Keith wonders sometimes how barren Lance’s room must be now -- or, what used to be his room. But then, it doesn’t matter, because Lance _never_ uses that room anymore.

     It makes him fear their inevitable separation even more. He shouldn’t let himself become accustomed to this, but he does anyway.

 

*

 

     It culminates like this: Lance gets shot and they’re cutting it close getting off of a ship that’s seconds from colliding with another, much larger, vessel. Their armour is in shambles at best but the most significant damage is where Lance’s was pierced through the right shoulder.

     The plasma blast didn’t get anything vital, as far as they can tell, but it still hurts like a bitch and the blood loss is making him feel weak and woozy. Keith is covering his back because that’s what Keith _does,_ what Keith would literally risk his life to do -- Lance knows; he’s seen the results of his self-sacrificial tendencies up close and personal more times than he can count.

     The stupid sentries are crowding down the corridor behind them and Lance’s arm is useless at his side so he _runs,_ the data they came here for all compiled neatly on one of Pidge’s little devices clutched in his good hand, while Keith defends them both with sword and shield. None of the sentries he’s taking out have any clue about the busted controls or the way their ride is barrelling through space and straight into imminent doom. They likely don’t have any sense of mortality, let alone the ability to care about getting blown up or crushed to death or any manner of other horrible ends Lance is dreaming up as the hangar doors finally, mercifully, come into view.

     But so does the rapidly approaching expanse of the command ship the rest of the team is on.

     “Keith,” he squeaks, and Keith just grunts his acknowledgement as he shields them from a spray of blaster fire. 

     This is _too_ close. Even if they get off the ship there’s no way they’re going to survive the results of the impact. He stumbles closer to their potential freedom and realizes with a sickening lurch of his stomach that the damage his flight-pack sustained is going to prevent him from getting very far _anyway._  

     “Keith,” he says again, more urgently this time. “I can’t-- the flight-pack.”

     And they’re already at the hangar door. Lance freezes as he watches them hurtle towards the command ship, the way the vast exterior only seems to expand further the closer they get and they really are _seconds_ from impact -- if they don’t jump _now,_ there isn’t going to be much chance of them escaping at all. 

     “I know,” Keith says, close behind him, and Lance turns on his heel to fix him with a panicked look. “Mine, too.” Keith’s reaching out for him, then his hands are on the dented and cracked armour over his chest -- for a second Lance wonders if he’s just _accepting_ their fate, if what’s coming next is reassurance that maybe death isn’t so bad. But instead he’s being pushed out of the hangar and down, away from the impact that follows almost immediately. It’s still close enough and forceful enough for the blast to send him spinning away through space, Keith’s name on his lips as flashes of fire light up the darkness around him. His ears ring and _cold_ seeps into his bones from where his visor is cracked and his armour is broken.

     The last thing he sees is Red barreling through the debris towards him.

  
  
  


     It takes a few seconds to remember when he wakes up -- remember why he’s cold and why he’s sore and why he was in the cryopod in the first place. It’s just as Hunk’s arms wind over his shoulders to pull him into a firm embrace that he gasps and twists frantically around, trying to see into the other pods, praying to any god that will listen that--

     Hunk’s hands on his face force him to look into soft brown eyes and he feels his lips tremble around a shuddering breath. “Hey, it’s okay. Calm down, buddy. You’re okay.”

     His mind is reeling because the last thing he remembers is the heat of fire and the cold of space and _Keith_ where’s _Keith_ he needs him to be _safe._ The Red Lion materializes out of the wreckage and--

     Nothing.

     It occurs to him that he’s hyperventilating, and then Hunk is hugging him again and asking him to just take deep breaths: “Smell the flowers, blow out the candles.” Lance tries to follow along. “Very good. Again.” He feels Hunk’s chest swell against his own and follows suit. “You’re okay. You only got blown up a tiny bit. You’ve still got all your fingers and toes and whatever.”

     Lance wants to laugh at that but all he can do is twist his fingers into the fabric of Hunk’s shirt and whisper, “Keith?”

     Hunk exhales sharply through his nose and Lance can’t tell if that was halfway to laughter or halfway to apprehension. But then he’s shaking his head and smiling down at him. “What a surprise. First word out of your mouth after a near-death experience and--” Hunk must catch the anxiety contorting his expression because he grips Lance’s shoulders gently and turns him to face the cryopod directly beside the one he just exited. “He’s going to be fine,” he assures, as Lance stumbles forward to press his hands to the glass. 

     “How long?”

     “Huh?”

     “How much longer is he going to be in there?” Lance takes in the faint scarring over Keith’s throat and the back of his hand, the only exposed skin he can see, to gauge the extent of his injuries. They’re obviously new, and obviously almost done healing. 

     “Coran said only about three vargas after you, so…” Hunk sighs. “Y’know what, I’ll just make this easier on everyone and go get you something to rest on. Maybe some food.”

     “...’Kay.” Lance nods absently and the next thing he knows Hunk is back with an armful of chips and several cushions.

     And a bouncing bundle of green fur and big, floppy ears, that drops to all fours and _launches_ himself across the room, into Lance’s waiting arms. _“Lance!”_ Kah-Yih’s little claws dig into his shoulders as he hugs him fiercely. “Uncle Hunk said you gotted hurt.”

      _‘Uncle Hunk?’_ Lance mouths over the top of the kit’s head. Hunk shrugs sheepishly and starts arranging cushions on the floor. 

     “Nah, I’m fine. Just needed a nap,” Lance assures, cradling the kit close. “How’ve you been, kiddo?”

     “I gah cookies!” 

     “You got cookies?!”

     Kah-Yih hums and nods vigorously, smiling all big with his little needle-sharp teeth (he’s still got a couple working their way through his gums, but what he has are certifiably dangerous). “Where’s Keef?”

     Lance tries _really hard_ not to grimace, but judging by the look on Hunk’s face, he isn’t successful. “Uh, he needed to take a nap, too.”

     Kah-Yih frowns at that. His little ‘koala’ nose (as Keith affectionately refers to it) twitches minutely. _“I_ wanna nap,” is what he says, and _not_ what Lance was expecting. It startles a short burst of laughter out of him.

     “You _want_ a nap?” 

     What the hell kind of toddler _wants_ a nap?

     “He hasn’t slept yet today. Too busy asking for you guys,” Hunk explains. He sets a couple bags of chips nearby and gestures at the completed cozy spot he’s put together for Lance. “Here, relax. I know the pods don’t exactly leave you feeling spectacular. I can take Kah-Yih back if you--”

     “No, it’s good. He can hang out with me for a bit. Get that nap in.”

     Hunk flashes him a thumbs-up on his way out the door.

     “Keef?” Kah-Yih says again. His petite hands clench and unclench repeatedly in the fabric of the cryosuit Lance is still wearing, like a Hayettling equivalent of kneading. It makes his claws poke Lance’s sides every few seconds. 

     Lance sighs and shuffles them over to the pile of cushions -- the nest -- that Hunk threw together for them. “He’ll be awake soon. I promise.”

     Kah-Yih sniffles. Lance croons and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “I promise,” he repeats, glancing up at the nearby pod and Keith’s drawn face behind the glass. When Kah-Yih still refuses to relax for several minutes, whimpers growing increasingly frantic, he threads his fingers through the thick fur on the back of his head and hums a lullaby he’s heard Keith sing countless times now.

     He’s woken by Hunk’s hand on his shoulder, the Yellow paladin whispering something to him. “Whu--?” Kah-Yih is being lifted from his chest and on instinct he holds on tighter.

     “You got about three minutes, bud. I’ll take care of him. He doesn’t need to be here when Keith comes out of the pod.”

     “When Keith…?” Lance’s eyes fly open. Has he been asleep for three hours? His stint in the pod must have really drained him. “Oh!” He’s scrambling to his feet immediately. 

      Hunk tucks the lightly snoring kit into his arms, handling him as if he’s made of spun glass. “I’ll let you-- y’know, I’ll just,” he gestures vaguely at the door and gives a half-shrug. “Yeah. Good luck.”

      _Good luck?_ Lance considers asking after him but the soft beeping from the cryopod distracts him and his heart seizes up in his chest. 

     When he turns, it’s to see Keith suck in a stuttering breath as his eyes flutter open, one foot sliding forward to brace himself against the influence of gravity. Lance is quick to step closer, curling his hands around Keith’s upper arms and providing him support as he recovers from the healing process. He doesn’t say anything, not yet, but he does wrap Keith in a tight embrace, lips grazing over his forehead as they fold into each other.

     “Lance?” Keith rasps, and he can’t stop himself.

 

*

 

     “What the hell were you thinking?” he asks, no ire -- just the same soft concern Lance has learned to use when approaching these situations.

     Keith short-circuits a little bit. What was he _thinking?_ Oh, he was thinking about a whole hell of a lot in that moment. He says as much, and Lance pushes further out of his personal space, blue eyes alight with curiosity.

     “Like what?”

      _“Like--?”_ He gestures nonsensically for a moment before curling in on himself and sighing. “Like, I was more likely to survive that collision than you were,” he grumbles. “You were already hurt,” he defends, when Lance opens his mouth to protest.

     “Not that _badly!”_

      _“Like,_ I’d rather have both of us survive a little banged up than just one of us make it out in one piece. Like…” his fingers twist into his hair and he refuses to meet Lance’s eyes -- _can’t,_  because he isn’t sure how much of what he’s feeling is visible in his expression and he can’t take that risk, “I’d rather have you survive something like that than me. And I wasn’t as close to getting out as you were, and-- and we need someone to be here for Kah-Yih, and I need it to be you, so if that means I get killed in a freak accident then so be it, because I _need_ you to--” The words catch in his throat and he makes a choked sound as he chances a glance up at Lance’s face. 

     When he’s met with a carefully blank stare, he ducks away from Lance to make for the door, terrified of the reaction that awaits him. Maybe because Lance can read his mind better than anyone else, even Shiro, and if he knows anything about Lance then he knows Lance can hear everything he’s trying not to say. Maybe because he doesn’t want another lecture on the cons of throwing his life away for someone else’s sake. 

     Lance’s fingers curl around his wrist, loosely enough that it would be easy for him to pull away and just keep walking.

     He doesn’t. He turns his head when Lance asks him to, looks up when Lance asks him to, afraid of the outcome of this conversation as much as he’s afraid of walking away from it. 

     The more visceral fear is that Lance will finally get sick of him and his inability to stop doing reckless shit, and he won’t have small comforts like this anymore -- like the warm hands on his or the way Lance cares so much he can _feel_ it. Maybe not physically, but the look he’s receiving seems to resonate with his soul. 

     The other, quieter fear is rejection. That if Lance understands even a fraction of how Keith feels about him, he’s going to end whatever it is they have here and now.

     For a split second, he wishes with all his might that things could just be normal and Lance could love him and that would be _okay_ \-- that the universe wouldn’t douse that flame immediately, like it always does. He wishes, in that second, that _he_ was normal and could just enjoy some of the little pleasures in life like being held or kissed or loved in _any way_ without it ending in disaster. Without getting his heart broken over and over and over. 

     Lance kisses him.

     It feels fine -- almost _normal_ \-- for a moment, and Keith truly begins to melt into the touch (the palm pressed to his cheek, the twitch of fingers over the back of his hand, the urgent press of Lance’s lips against his) before he remembers himself and jerks back. “Lance,” he gasps, “you _can’t--”_

     “Why?”

     Lance fixes him with a look that’s equal parts disappointed and pleading, and if it’s possible for Keith’s _heart_ to feel confused, then that’s what the ache in his chest must be. He doesn’t mean for his eyes to burn with unshed tears. It’s the knowing that kills him inside -- knowing that whatever Lance wants isn’t going to last, one way or another; knowing that Lance will tire of him sooner or later; knowing that _Lance_ doesn’t know enough about him to make this kind of decision.

     Knowing he’s a bad person, whether he tries to be or not, because the kind of life he’s lived made him that way. And that the one thing he wants most in the universe is here, literally right at his fingertips, and he’s going to have to be the rational one here. He’s going to have to steer Lance clear of becoming entangled in his fucking mess of a life before it’s too late.

     “We’re-- we’re not _pretending_ anymore,” he says, trying to sound angry, but it comes out as a broken whine instead.

     This time, Lance maintains the distance Keith created, and somehow that’s worse -- because Lance _understands_ and _respects_ his boundaries without a word needing to be said. Lance managed to worm his way into Keith’s heart and figure out exactly what makes him tick, and he learned to read Keith like no else ever could, yet he never tries to use that against him.

     “I know,” Lance breathes, eyes wide as he searches Keith’s face. It’s like a blow to the chest when he realizes Lance is desperately seeking comfort from him but is too afraid to overstep. “I don’t want to pretend.”

     “You can’t…” he trails off again, tries to remember how he wanted to finish that sentence. “You can’t just kiss me whenever you feel like it, now.”

     Lance’s bottom lip wobbles. Keith feels a tear burn a path down the curve of his cheek. “I know. But I want to.”

     The words _hurt_ coming out but he knows they have to be said. “You shouldn’t.”

     “Keith--”

     “You _shouldn’t,_ Lance. I’m bad for you.” Even as he says that he’s reaching out to touch his cheek, run his fingers through his hair, revel in all the beautiful aspects of physical contact with someone he’s afraid to love. 

     “No, you’re not.” Lance’s voice cracks. “You make me happy. I don’t think I was ever happier than when we were pretending to be married, even with all the crazy, terrible stuff going on around us. You _can’t_ be bad for me. I lo--”

     “You don’t _know_ me,” he snaps, pulling his hands back in, close to his chest as Lance’s mouth snaps shut around the words Keith wishes he could bear to hear. “You wouldn’t say that if you actually knew _anything about me.”_

     “But I _do.”_

     Keith shakes his head slowly. More tears run down his face and he doesn’t care anymore -- doesn’t care about looking weak, doesn’t care if Lance sees him cry. He stopped caring a long time ago. He’d trust Lance with his life. _Has_ trusted Lance with his life, on several occasions now. 

     It reminds him that Lance is kind; he’s _good_ and Keith doesn’t deserve someone so perfect. 

     “I know that you _act_ tough but horror movies will make you cling to the nearest person for dear life,” Lance says softly, and Keith almost laughs at the truth in that. “I know you’re ambidextrous. I know you like the chocolates Hunk makes but _not_ the kind with the weird red fruit inside, even though those are objectively the best. I know you’re closer to Shiro than you are to anyone else in the universe.”

     His fingertips brush across the back of Lance’s hand and he falls silent. “That’s not what I mean,” he explains through an attempt at an apologetic smile.

     When he turns and begins walking away, Lance takes a second to follow. He expected as much: Lance is nothing if not persistent. What he doesn’t expect is what Lance says to him.

     “I know that you’re unshakeably loyal to the people you care about. I know you like kids, or at least you like _our_ kid, and that despite the whole ‘rugged badass’ thing you’ve got going on, you make a _great_ parent. I know you don’t _like_ that you’re part Galra, and it makes you feel like you don’t belong, or maybe like it’s bad or there’s something wrong with you, but it doesn’t matter to _any_ of us what your genetic makeup is. We only care about who you are as a person. Is that the problem?”

     He stumbles through the doorway and into the brightly lit corridor, at which point Lance overtakes him and swings around to face him again. “I know you were in the foster system as a kid and a lot of bad stuff happened. I know life hasn’t been great for you. I _know._ I want to help you undo some of that. _Please.”_

     Lance is crying, too. He can’t handle that Lance is crying. “You don’t actually _know_ what it is, though!” He stops. Breathes in slowly. Holds onto it for a second and when he exhales he scrubs away his own tears and fixes Lance with a look that easily keeps him quiet. “We just wouldn’t be good for each other. We’re better off as friends.”

     It’s several long seconds before Lance says anything. In fact, Keith almost walks away after the helpless staring starts to become uncomfortable, but then Lance nods and sighs tremulously. “Okay,” he whispers. “O-okay. But I want you to understand that nothing you say is going to make me feel differently, and I don’t want you to be afraid to talk to me about things you don’t think you can handle on your own.”

     “I already know how to handle my problems on my own,” he replies automatically. Defensively. He cringes but Lance is not deterred.

     “I know.” Smiling isn’t supposed to look so miserable. “I know you do. But you don’t have to.”

     Somehow it’s Lance who walks away first, and Keith spends a long while rooted to the spot in the corridor before he’s really conscious of himself again. He wanders absently through the castle a short way, absent-mindedly searching for his kit, who he’s only somewhat confident the rest of the team is able to deal with.

  


     His teeth change that night. 

     Kah-Yih has _finally,_ graciously fallen asleep, after hours and hours of tears over Lance’s absence, when he feels the ache start deep in his jaw. It builds quickly, and before he knows it he’s hiding his screams in a pillow that’s quickly becoming soaked with blood. 

     He’s conscious of the entire agonizing process of each individual tooth coming loose, bit by bit, but worse is the feeling of the new tooth coming through beneath it.

     He doesn’t remember it hurting this much after his quintessence exposure. To be fair, he doesn’t remember much from those couple of days, anyway.

     But this is new. It’s the bluntness of human teeth pushing up through his gums and the thick, bitter blood flooding his mouth. Spikes of razor-sharp pain interspersed with a deep, unbearable pressure winds up through his cheeks and down his jaw until a muffled sob stirs Kah-Yih.

     He has to move before he wakes him. He can’t let him see this. It would traumatize him. 

     Keith braces himself; pushes the collar of his shirt up to cover his mouth and what he can be sure is the obscene amount of blood around it, and as _carefully_ and _quietly_ as he can, lifts Kah-Yih to his chest and tiptoes out the door. The walk to Lance’s room is short, but it feels agonizingly long when the tips of his fangs are stabbing into his gums and the mounting pressure low in his cheeks is making his eyes water. 

     Lance answers the door immediately. It’s obviously he hasn’t slept. There’s a green pillow and a yellow blanket on the bed behind him, but they’re virtually undisturbed save for a wrinkled mark where he imagines Lance has been sitting. His Punk-phone is laying on the mattress, screen lit up. 

     Lance is pale and unblinking when he looks back up.

     “I need you to take him,” he whispers, slurred by the extra protrusion of his canines as they’re forced out of place and muffled by the blood-soaked fabric he’s using to hide them. He glances at the sad-looking bed (Lance doesn’t even have sheets) and deflates a little. “You can go to our… uh, my room instead. I’ll… I dunno. I just-- Sorry. Please take him.”

     “What’s…?” Lance’s fingers brush the back of the hand that’s holding his shirt in place. 

      _“Please.”_

     Lance moves his hand to Kah-Yih’s back and the kit makes a tiny _prrp_ sound before turning his face against Keith’s neck. “...No.”

     “What?”

     “No.” Lance shakes his head. “I’m not… I _can’t--_ I’m staying with you. Are you hurt? Is this another Galra thing?”

     “It’s a Galra thing.” One of his canines is finally coming loose, enough so that it tilts forward when his tongue presses against it. “I’m fine.”

     “You’re bleeding.”

     “I’m… _fine.”_ Lance knows it’s a lie just as well as he does. He isn’t equipped to handle pain like this. He would’ve thought he _was,_ with all the shit he’s been through in this lifetime, but much like with his ears, this isn’t something he wants to do alone.

     And it isn’t something Lance will _allow_ him to do on his own. He wants to be grateful for that. He remembers the conversation they had just _hours_ earlier, and he feels guilty instead.

     Lance takes him back to his room and disappears with Kah-Yih.

     For a moment, he thinks he’s relented and left him alone, and he can’t tell if he’s relieved or heartbroken. But the door opens and the lights turn on and he hisses, blinking against the sudden brightness. 

     Lance is weighed down with water pouches and medical supplies. He rushes up to where Keith is hunched on the bed, hands clasped over his mouth to stem the flow of blood. It’s only as Lance is trying to coax him into moving his hands that he makes a surprised noise and jerks back, because--

     He spits and there’s a razor-sharp canine resting on his palm. 

     And it’s not like he wasn’t expecting that, but it’s...it’s _just_ … He looks to Lance for help. 

     “It’s okay,” he says, spreading a small towel beside them and grabbing Keith’s wrist to tip the tooth onto it. “Can I look?”

     Keith is too tired, too overwhelmed, and in too much pain to protest as Lance all but pries his mouth open to look at his teeth. His thumb rubs over the empty space his tooth just left behind. 

     “Is it just these few that hurt?”

     “Whaddya mean?” Keith tries to ask around his fingers. 

     “The more Galra-looking teeth. There are only, eh, ten? Maybe twelve. How many _really_ sharp teeth are humans supposed to have? Ow!” Lance withdraws his hand and sticks his thumb in his own mouth to suck the blood away. “Fuck. I cut myself.”

     “Ten or twelve teeth is a _lot,_ Lance.” Keith tries not to flinch when speaking aggravates all the nerves in his damn _face._ “I’ve only lost _one_ and I don’t want to do this.”

     “Will you try to kill me if I remind you that you’ve got brand-new human teeth growing in _right_ behind them?”

     “...Yes. I will.”

     “Can I interest you in one Kah-Yih’s favourite teething toys?”

     Keith rolls his eyes and flops back on the bed. “Do you actually _want_ me to kill you?”

     Lance looks at him strangely, eyes shining, then smiles and nudges him with his foot. “You’d miss me.”

     He shakes his head, or tries to, but there’s more twisting in his gums and it’s _blinding._ His arm shoots out to the side, looking for purchase, and finds Lance’s hand. 

     “Okay, woah.” Lance helps drag him back upright. “How bad? I’ve got, uh, ice, space Tylenol, and booze.”

     Keith might be in _agony,_ but he manages to pry his eyes open and direct a confused, _“Booze?”_ at Lance.

     “Yeah, y’know, old trick peoples’ grandma’s use for teething. Rub whiskey on a baby’s gums so it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

     “‘m not a baby. And I’m pretty sure that just gets them drunk?” he says, like it’s a question. He laughs but it turns into a sob and the next thing he knows Lance’s heartbeat is against his cheek and there’s the distinct scent of Coran’s weird space liquor wafting through the air.

     He takes the bottle when it’s pressed into his hand and he lets Lance hold him while he tries not to cry, until well after the day cycle has begun.

  


     “Y’know, if the tooth fairy was real, you’d be making bank.”

     Lance is facing away from him, rubbing sleep out of his eyes while Kah-Yih puts clips and pins from Allura’s stash in his hair. He just turns his head slightly when he hears Keith walk in; Kah-Yih grabs his face and forces him to look forward again. “I bugga make you pretty,” he explains, smearing something bright green and shimmering on his cheeks.

     “Oh, sorry, my bad, Mr. Beautician, sir.”

     “Lance,” Keith says, a little too soft and out of place.

     He’s a little preoccupied with keeping still for whatever the hell Kah-Yih is trying to put on his lips now (Keith’s pretty sure it’s actually eye shadow) so it’s almost unintelligible when he responds, “Yeah?”

      _“Lance.”_

     Lance turns around fully this time (now there’s a line of eyeshadow across his jaw) and his eyes widen when he sees the two headsets Keith is holding. “Oh,” he says, over Kah-Yih’s protests. “Hey, uh, Kah-Yih, buddy… you know who would _really_ love this?”

     “Who?”

     “Your Uncle Shiro.”

     That’s about all the convincing it takes to get Kah-Yih to torment Shiro for the next few hours. Keith is pretty sure Lance manages to get the space mice in on it.

     Lance gently removes one headset from Keith’s grasp once they’re alone again. “So…?”

     “I asked Coran to help me with, uh…” he isn’t sure how to finish that thought. “He altered them a little bit.”

     “Because you,” Lance only briefly makes eye contact before dropping his gaze down to the neural synchronization headset again, “have something you want to show me?”

     “I do.”

     “Keith, you don’t have to--”

     “I know.” He slides his fingers into the spaces between Lance’s and when Lance doesn’t protest he squeezes tight and breathes deep. “But I want to.” Lance follows easily as he guides him to their room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about  
> to  
> go
> 
> d o w n


	12. I'll Say Yes, I'll Undress (I've Done More for Less)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I said it on Tumblr and I'll say it here: As far as "making Keith suffer" goes, this is my magnum opus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I wrote like 90% of this in a drug-induced haze (oh the irony) like almost a year ago and I've been adding bits and pieces and editing it a little bit at a time ever since, to create this absolute monster.
> 
> WARNING for:  
> -Drugs & drug use  
> -Non-consensual drug use  
> -Coercion?  
> -Lots of non-con elements in general  
> -GASLIGHTING  
> -Abuse/abusive relationships  
> -Cheating (kinda)  
> -Needles  
> -The usual stuff
> 
> -The whole thing is one 13k nightmare have fun

* * *

 

     He tries to start slow. He doesn’t want to overwhelm Lance. It’s hard, once he starts thinking about everything, to gloss over the details of his father’s death, and after the first foster home it just snowballs and he can’t stop and somehow all the  _ worst _ parts stand out the most. Dale and losing Shiro, the  _ fire _ (the way his heart seized when Red spat fire the first time, and he didn’t think until much later of the irony), Lars, the stupid bible-thumpers he thought he could be  _ happy _ with,  _ Naomi _ and the first time he tried to kill himself and all the ways he tries to numb the pain of loss and then--

 

* * *

 

 

_ Keith Kogane is not stupid. _

     He knows a bad person when he sees one.

     He knows he shouldn’t get involved.

     But he’s convinced himself that  _ he’s _ a bad person, too.

     It’s well past midnight, probably approaching two in the morning. This is an awful part of the city. He can distinctly hear three different sets of sirens from the back alley fire escape; can see red and blue flash past briefly on the damp pavement several meters below where his feet dangle over the edge. He’s nursing a couple bruised ribs and several gashes along his face and arms, from both a pocket knife and fingernails that really needed a trim. It wasn’t the kind of fight he’s used to -- the jiu jitsu classes he used to take have little on someone who fights dirty like that. He needs more practice if he’s ever going to survive on the streets.

     And it’s where he’ll end up, no matter how many times he closes his eyes and dreams of travelling among the stars. 

     His foster parents haven’t given up trying to punish him for his misbehaviour, but it hasn’t stopped him from staying out all night anyway. They’ve tried reasoning with him (“We’re going to get in trouble if you spend all your time roaming the streets,” they say, “What if you get kidnapped?”) but it only took him a couple nights to realize they didn’t actually care.

     For some reason, the hypocrites don’t want him doing any drugs. Even now, as he sits with a joint in his hand and stares numbly at the barren brick wall and cracked windows of the ancient apartment building across the alley, they’re probably throwing a party in the neighbour’s apartment, having a go at all kinds of dangerous cocktails from multiple dealers.

     He knows the city well enough now to find his own fix for himself, anyway, so they can go fuck themselves.

     He flicks the tiny remaining bud aside and hops down the fire escape, ignoring the way the impact with the pavement makes his legs ache. 

     “You’re always out here, but you never introduce yourself to us,” a voice says as he rounds a corner, headed in the opposite direction of his latest foster home. Caught off guard, he spins to face them, dropping into a defensive stance -- arms up for protection, fists ready to strike. 

     There are a couple kids about his age, some a few years older, lounging around in various positions near the loading dock of a warehouse. The one who spoke, who looks to be about 17 or 18, grins voraciously at him. His thin grey hoodie hangs off his frame in a manner that seems severely unhealthy even to Keith, who is fairly thin himself. 

     “Oh,” Keith says as the boy steps forward. “Uh.” He doesn’t drop his arms, but he refuses to back away from this kid, no matter how much he towers over him.

     His brain feels like it’s lagging, but that’s his own fault for smoking.

     “I’m Ben,” the older boy is saying, a hand coming up to settle on Keith’s head and ruffle his hair. He recoils immediately and parries his arm away. “You’re a scrappy little thing, huh? You got a name, mullet kid?”

     Keith glares up at him. “Don’t  _ touch _ me.”

     “Weird name.”

     “Fuck you.”

     “I dunno, you look kinda young.” The grin only grows wider.

     “Ah, c’mon, Ben,” someone mumbles from where they’re slouched on a filthy blanket just outside the garage door. “You want him or not?”

     “I’m thinkin’ I do,” Ben says quietly, looking Keith up and down like he’s  _ appraising _ him or some shit. “What ya say, kid? You got anything you can offer me?”

     “For … for what?” Keith is  _ definitely _ missing a vital part of this conversation.

     “You been smoking, right?”

     “Uh.” There’s hardly a point lying; they can probably smell it on him, and judging by the various states of listlessness these teenagers are in, he doubts they’ll be interacting with the authorities anytime soon. “Yeah?”

     “Who you buy from?”

     It’s probably safe to tell, right? “H.C. on Addermore.”

     Ben barks out a laugh and two or three of the stoned kids nearby echo him. “Shit’s weak, mullet kid. Come try some of mine.”

     “Hey,” a girl with frizzy blonde hair pipes up behind him. She has a cigarette between her fingers, but her eyes are obviously bloodshot even in the dim yellow light seeping into the alley. “You better charge for that. I don’t help run this shit to give it out to little rats for nothing in return.”

     “You don’t run this shit at all, Lor. Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben snaps at her, a complete one-eighty from his playful demeanour a moment ago, and Keith  _ knows _ the kind of person he is. He  _ knows _ how dangerous it is when Ben takes him by the sleeve and leads him through the splintered gap in the garage door and into the unfamiliar darkness of the abandoned warehouse. 

     Whatever happens, he supposes, he must deserve it.

  
  
  


     Ben was right. H.C. has been selling him some weak shit. And he thought he was stoned before…

     “So,” Ben starts, his dark eyes floating into Keith’s line of sight, obscuring everything else, “how about your payment?”

     Keith sighs and reaches into his pocket where he’s pretty sure there’s still a handful of cash he stole from his foster parents. 

     “No, not like that. I’ve got a lot of influence here. Stuff can be free when I say it is.”

     “Mm. Okay,” Keith says, not overly enthusiastic to spend the money, anyway. “What, then? Handjob or something?” He’s not  _ naive _ \-- he’s been making poor choices long enough to get how most people work. 

     “Nah.” Ben looks tempted, though, and Keith almost recoils when Ben’s fingers card through his hair, curling an end around his index finger and smirking. “Just want your name, mullet kid.”

     Keith squints up at him, distrusting (reasonably), but Ben just watches him patiently, still playing with a strand of his hair. “...Keith.”

     “Hm. Southern.” He winks and Keith does his best to roll his eyes. “How old are you, Keith?”

     “Seventeen,” he lies without hesitation. 

     “You’re pretty scrawny for seventeen.”

     “Yeah … I get that a lot.”

     “Asians are usually tiny, though, right?”

     Keith sighs. He’s too high to deal with some random white dude’s racist bullshit.

     Ben just laughs. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

 

*

 

     For  _ some fucking reason _ , he goes back later that week.

     It’s a lot of the same people there; Ben has a hypodermic needle in his hand and he smiles dopily up at Keith as he offers it to him. Keith grimaces and shakes his head. “I don’t like needles.”

     “Whatever, kid. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

_ Pain _ , Keith thinks, watching the way Ben’s eyes squeeze shut as he pierces his own skin. He’s had more than enough of that.

     “What’re you back for? Miss me?”

     Keith’s fingers creep up under the opposite sleeve of his jacket, press against the fresh cigarette burns and bruises there --  _ those _ are the reason he’s back. Desperation. The pain is dull but grounding, and he eyes the needle cautiously as Ben sets it down. “Yeah, I guess.”

     Ben laughs, then, loud and boisterous. “You’re sure cute.” He produces a joint from the tattered pocket of his sweater. “Back for this?”

     Keith flushes red and nods.

     “Mm. A kiss for this one, then.”

     “Uh--” before he can say anything (he’s not sure whether he was actually going to protest or not), Ben’s lips press against his, and his breath tastes like cigarettes and whiskey, which makes Keith want to flinch back. Instead, Ben takes his hand in his own, sits back on the ground, and presses the joint against his palm purposefully just before his eyes start to glaze over. “Thanks.”

     He doesn’t sleep at his foster house that night, but wakes up in the morning on an old mattress in some room in the warehouse with Ben curled around him, warm breath on the back of his neck. The places where their bodies touch are  _ aching _ , like he’s made of tissue paper, and he whines when Ben’s arm tightens over his waist. He’s too sensitive for that much contact. A punch to the face hurts, sure, but not the way this does -- not like he’s fragile as a moth’s wings. The skin on his neck and shoulders  _ crawls _ with the sensation of someone so close.

     Cold sunlight peers through the cracked windows and assaults his eyes when he tries to open them. His foster parents are probably going to  _ kill _ him if he doesn’t get home soon. The idea of living out here in the alley with all these strange people is suddenly appealing by comparison.

     “Shit,” he grumbles, shoving the covers off and gasping at the freezing air that hits him. 

     Ben sits up behind him and groans. “What?”

     “I gotta get home.”

     “Ugh, c’mon, man. Fuck that. There’s obviously a reason you’re here.”

     “So?” Keith snaps, zipping up his jacket as a barrier against the cold. He doesn’t take it off much anymore, not even to sleep. With every passing year, it becomes less a bit of nostalgia from his old life and more the only thing that ever comforts him. It was one of the only things brought into the foster system with him, since it was one of few items that had been in their barely-moved-into home before his father’s death. He curls his fingers into the material of the sleeve and glares at Ben.

_  “So, _ fuck your parents. Run away. You’re almost old enough, so they probably won’t bother looking for you.”

     Keith forgets for a moment that he’s pretending to be seventeen -- almost argues that he’s fourteen and stuck there for several more years, but instead he sighs and drops his head. “I can’t yet. I’m in the foster system. They won’t just let me go.”

     “Oh,” is all Ben says.

     No one stops Keith on his way out. He’s late for school, definitely, so no point trying to go. He’s only in grade nine and already failing miserably. All school does is make him feel worse about himself. 

  
  


     “Oh, Keith, where were you last night?” his foster mom, Georgia, asks as he nudges his boots off beside the front door. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, and Keith is bad at body language but he’s not dumb enough not to notice the way her gaunt face is taut with barely-concealed anger, in direct contrast to the sweet and concerned tone she’s attempting. “We were up all night worrying.”

_    Yeah, right _ . Keith wants to scoff,  _ Worried you’ll get caught and removed from the system and lose out on your precious drug money, more like _ . Jokes on her, though: he steals most of it back, and she’s usually too far gone to notice. Mostly, she seems to assume that some guy who came round to fuck her underpaid her, if she notices missing cash at all. “I was at a friend’s house.”

     “Keith, you’re supposed to tell us when you go out, remember?”

     “I did. You were snorting coke when I did.”

     Georgia squints at him for a moment before dropping her arms to her sides and striding towards him. “Think you’re clever?”

     “Hardly.”

     “You know what happens to me if you go missing? You think I’m looking to get stuck in some fucking investigation?”

     Keith draws himself up to his full height, which really isn’t much. “I think I’d prefer it to the shit you do.”

     She slaps him so hard he sees stars. “There are  _ worse places to fucking be _ . I  _ know _ you know that. You wanna go somewhere like your other houses?  _ Huh _ ? Have some more fun with a new fucking nutcase?”

     She  _ knows _ she isn’t supposed to talk about that; Keith’s ribs constrict around his lungs and he’s suffocating, looking up at her like she’s not even there anymore. He’s trying to form words but all that comes out is a harsh wheeze. 

     Georgia’s hand is under his chin, then, tilting his head up to make him look at her with unseeing eyes. “See? That’s why you have to stay here. Things could be so much worse at the next place. We take care of you here, Keith. You just need to learn your place.”

     She leaves him there, disappearing into the kitchen with her tousled brown hair swinging over her shoulder and saying something about ordering food that Keith doesn’t quite hear.

 

* 

 

     He isn’t allowed out of her sight for two weeks after that. Even when she’s barely coherent and he tries to sneak out of the room, she snatches his wrist and reminds him how much worse things will be if he fucks this up for her. Her husband, Reggie, is hardly much help, but she seems to be doing a fine job of keeping him prisoner on her own.

     She talks about the bad things -- all the warnings he came with; the precise, sterile words immortalized in a file in the agency’s computer system that details every little thing he’s gone through since his dad died -- because she knows it scares him so much he can’t feel his legs.

     If he can’t use his legs, he can’t take off again, and they can’t get in trouble if  _ he’s _ staying out of trouble. Georgia drives him to and from school in her impossibly derelict $500 beater before working the day in some fast-food restaurant Keith has never heard of before.

     Apparently she has to have a “real job” to keep foster kids, so a couple hours a day working in a kitchen where everyone else is also stoned out of their mind isn’t an issue for her, when it means an additional government stipend alongside the money she already makes frying chicken strips. She always pretends she isn’t also a prostitute, despite being (apparently) married, and no one ever brings it up. Keith’s learned a lot in foster care -- most importantly, that keeping to yourself is the right course of action, always.

     Finally,  _ finally _ he slips away while she’s “servicing a client”, tiptoeing past the locked bedroom door and sprinting down the alley. He passes behind the dilapidated house on Addermore he used to buy from, runs beneath the fire escape he used to scale on a regular basis, and bursts through the warehouse door.

_ He’s developed some kind of attachment _ , he realizes, just as his gut twists in anger.

     Ben has some girl pressed up against the wall, sucking a mark onto her neck as she giggles and plays with his short-cropped blond hair, cheap pink-and-silver rings glittering against the dark skin of her hands as she pulls on it.

     Somehow, despite knowing that Ben is  _ bad _ , he’s let himself get attached and he doesn’t know  _ why _ , or  _ how _ , because it’s only been a few weeks. 

     But then Ben turns to him and his face lights up in a smile that has Keith’s heart seizing, and he knows: it’s the first time in ages someone has been nice to him even if they weren’t being paid to do it, the first time in as long as he can remember that someone actually seemed to  _ care _ and seemed to  _ want _ to interact with him. The first time since Shiro, and Naomi, and Mr. Byrd -- and they’re gone now, too, just like his parents.

     It’s the most amazing feeling in the world, knowing you made someone smile like they mean it.

     He’s being dragged into an embrace -- his brain screeches into overdrive for a second before he remembers it’s  _ okay _ , he’s  _ safe _ , and he returns the hug. Ben reeks of pot but he’s still smiling at Keith and Keith can actually feel himself smile back.

     “Oh man, Keith, where were you?”

     “My foster mom was pissed I took off for the night again. She pretty much kept me prisoner in the house.” Even though he’s angry about it, he’s still smiling, and Ben pulls him in for a kiss.

     “Geez, you scared me,” Ben says when he breaks away. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  
  
  


     Somehow, later that night, Keith finds that  _ he’s _ the one pressed up against a wall, and the usual alarm bells aren’t ringing in his head like they tend to at the mere  _ thought _ of intimacy. 

     He just giggles and lets Ben suck a hickey onto his throat because it feels nice to be with someone who isn’t actively trying to hurt him.

 

*

 

     “Yeah, man, just like we practiced,” Ben says smoothly, and Keith can’t believe he’s wasting a Saturday like this, but he knows he can’t get away with never paying for what Ben gives him. And whether it’s cash, his name, or specific services, he isn’t going to try to weasel his way out of this. Ben’s arm falls easily over Keith’s shoulders as he pulls him tight against his side.

     “In broad daylight?” Keith asks, gazing incredulously up at the older boy, who is just smiling like this isn’t even a problem.

     “What, you think I taught you to be discreet so you could work in the dark? It’s just a wallet. It’s hangin’ right out of his pocket. Just grab the damn thing.” Ben shoves him out onto the pavement, then, and the world around him blurs with his panic. The man he’s supposed to be  _ robbing _ \-- god, what the hell is Ben  _ thinking _ \-- stands with his back to him, typing furiously at his phone and mumbling to himself. There are other people around, but this is a bus stop, and no one is looking, and Ben had told him to just look confident and no one will be suspicious.

    Breathing deeply, he slips his hands into his pockets and strolls over to the roadside, stopping just behind the distracted man. He looks to the side: a woman is pushing a stroller towards them, reaching down to fuss with the blanket covering the baby. He needs to move fast, get this over with while no one is looking.

     His heart is ready to burst out of his chest. Hands shaking, he grabs the wallet, pulls, slips it into the pocket of the oversized hoodie Ben gave him, and…

     Nothing.

     Oh, he did it. The stroller rolls to a stop beside him and he glances at the mother, wondering if she can sense his guilt, if she can tell how nervous he is by the way his knees are trembling in his torn jeans. She smiles at him, and he looks away quickly, another flood of guilt rushing through him.

     He  _ has _ to do this, he reminds himself, because the consequences of  _ not _ paying for what he takes are too great.

     The bus screeches to a stop in front of him, and he damn near jumps out of his skin. The mother gestures for him to go ahead of her, and he shakes his head as he watches the man he just robbed climb the steps. “Wrong bus,” he mumbles, retreating back into the alley, where Ben immediately snatches the wallet from him.

     “Good job,” he says, turning to walk back to their warehouse as he pulls cash out of it and starts counting. 

     “Thanks,” Keith says, unsteady. He trails behind Ben the whole way, staring at the dirty asphalt and wondering if the rest of his life will really be like this.

 

*

 

_ It’s getting worse _ , Keith wants to tell him, but he can’t get any words out while he’s sobbing the way he is.

     Ben doesn’t hit him or tell him not to cry, but Keith can feel the minute tightening of the grip on his forearm that means ‘stop’. He takes a couple gasping breaths and grimaces at the ache it produces deep in his ribs, scrubbing at his face to remove the tears.

_ No one wants to listen to a little bitch cry. It’s fucking annoying. _

     He’s well aware.

     Reggie had caught him stealing cash from Georgia’s purse and lost it, screaming about how ungrateful he was and how he was lucky they didn’t call the agency then and there and have him removed and sent somewhere  _ worse _ , which is a place Keith is beginning to think is a fucking  _ lie _ . 

     His ears are still ringing, a hideous bruise eclipsing the entire right side of his face where Reggie had seized him by the back of the head and slammed it into the wall by the front door (which now sports a sizeable dent in the shape of Keith’s skull). His nose has only just begun to stop bleeding, and he’s  _ convinced _ Reggie cracked a rib when he kicked him.

     Sometimes, Keith can’t  _ help _ but cry after a particularly bad day, though he’s accustomed to doing it alone in his room.

     Today, he didn’t start crying until Ben asked him what happened, and he looked so  _ sincere _ , Keith couldn’t stop the tears.

     But Ben wants him to stop now, he can tell, and he stares at his feet as he holds the blood-soaked wad of toilet paper under his nose, willing the tears to stop until they finally do.

     “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

     “Come with me,” Ben says, and Keith follows him to his room, where he has a whole array of equipment spread out beside the mattress. There are a few needles lying beside it all, and he picks up one full of some kind of translucent liquid as he beckons Keith closer. “This’ll make it better. You’ll feel better.”

     “I-I don’t like needles,” Keith says thickly, the blood in his nose affecting the clarity of his speech.

     “It’s okay, I’ll be careful.” Ben’s cool hand catches his elbow and he rolls up his sleeve, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the skin there. 

     Keith sighs, a twinge of pain shooting through his bloodied face. “I … shouldn’t,” he says, trying his best to remain vague.

     “Life’s no fun without risks,” Ben says, yanking down on his arm and forcing him to sit. 

     “No, I mean, like.” Keith sighs again and rubs his temples, leaving bloody smudges across his forehead. “I don’t want to screw everything up more than it already is. I want … I wanted to go to the Galaxy Garrison, and be an astronaut, and I  _ can’t _ keep doing stuff like this. I can’t make it impossible for me to have a  _ life _ later.”

     Ben appraises him for a few seconds, then shrugs. “It’s just heroin, and I promise you that heroin won’t ruin anything for you.” He latches onto Keith again, wraps something around his upper arm and ties it off so tightly it’s painful. 

     “Wait,” Keith starts, trying to pull away, but Ben shoves him down with a forearm over his collarbone, pinning him to the mattress.

     “I’m just trying to fucking  _ help _ you, Keith. Could you be a little more grateful?” he growls, and then the needle plunges into his arm and it  _ hurts _ , and he yelps in pain but then it’s gone and Ben is looming over him with that lupine grin again. It makes Keith feel so much smaller and weaker than him.

     He  _ is _ smaller and weaker.

     “There,” Ben coos, fingers playing lovingly with his hair. “First hit’s always free with me, cutie.” He winks, and Keith’s world slows down as warmth spreads into his limbs.

     “Thanks,” he murmurs, smiling as his eyes go out of focus.

  
  


*

  
  


     He’s barely coming down from his high when Ben rolls on top of him and starts grinding down, and -- oh, that’s  _ new _ . They haven’t gone quite this far before. Keith has sucked him off a few times but they’ve never tried anything beyond that.

     And, despite everything they’ve done up to this point, Keith isn’t sure he’s  _ ready _ to go all the way, after everything he’s been through.

     However, the last few times Keith’s come to him for a hit, Ben has been notably more …  _ hands-on _ , one might say, so he’s probably getting impatient.

     “Mm … wait,” Keith says, putting a hand on Ben’s chest. Ben smiles and grabs it, kissing his wrist.

     “What’s up?”

     “I don’t want to. Not right now.” He’s still all looped-up, but he’s starting to build a better tolerance to it, so when Ben snorts and tries to shove a hand down his pants he’s lucid enough to push him away.

     Ben probably wasn’t expecting that, because he slides sideways off the mattress with a surprised look. 

     “Ben, I said  _ no _ .”

     “What the fuck, man? I’ve been nothing but nice to you and that’s how you’re gonna repay me?” 

     He can almost  _ see _ that Ben is restraining himself from hitting him. Keith  _ glowers _ . “I’ve  _ been _ paying you, actually. With  _ cash _ , remember?”

     “Yeah, for  _ drugs _ , dumbass.” Ben’s fist thumps onto the mattress and a cloud of dirt explodes into the air. “I thought we  _ had _ something.”

     “Wha-? We  _ do _ ,” Keith stammers, curling into himself a bit. “We do, I just, I’m not ready … for  _ that _ yet, y’know, I--” His eyes dart around the room before finally settling on a point just beside Ben’s head. “Give me a few days, okay?”

     “Fine. Okay. Whatever,” Ben says, making an exasperated gesture. “I’m going outside.”

     Some things are really just inevitable.

 

*

 

     “C’mon, up,” Ben insists, and Keith groans and lifts his head from where it’s resting on Ben’s chest so he can sit up, essentially straddling him. He rolls up his sleeve and presents his arm so that Ben can find a good place to inject, reaching into his pocket for the cash he’s actually managed to earn for himself by intercepting a few of Georgia’s clients.

     “No.” Ben catches his arm to stop him from grabbing the money. “This is a pay-after deal today.”

     “Oh, uh,” Keith raises an eyebrow. “Okay?” It doesn’t usually work like that. It  _ never _ works like that, really, and Keith  _ should _ be suspicious but Ben knows this game best. He’s gotten him addicted so heavily that Keith feels like he’s dying when it wears off. He’s so desperate for more, for it to keep him sane and grounded, that he doesn’t think twice about Ben’s unusual behaviour. If it means he’s going to make him spend the weekend pick-pocketing, then so be it.

     Ben smirks and eases the needle into the vein. He still isn’t able to do this for himself, even after several months.

     If he was especially desperate, he might manage, but he has Ben here every time to do it for him until he feels more comfortable.

     It hardly registers that Ben doesn’t even touch his own needle until arms wrap around his waist and pull him back down, the voice directly beside his ear too clear and sober. “I’ve been thinking,” Ben whispers, fingers creeping up under Keith’s shirt. “I know how I want you to pay me for this hit.”

     “Hm?” Keith’s eyes are closed, face relaxed as he smiles against Ben’s shoulder.  _ Much better _ , he’s busy thinking. Everything is so much better, so much more tolerable, when he’s this far removed from reality.

     In a flash, Ben rolls them over so that Keith is pinned under him, deft fingers snapping open the button on his jeans.

 

*

 

     “I’m fourteen,” Keith blurts one day while Ben is mouthing at his throat, one knee wedged between his legs to force them apart.

     He pauses only for a second before Keith feels him shrug. “I figured you were younger than you said you were.”

     It was his last attempt to get out of this … relationship? Whatever it is, and Ben doesn’t even care about how  _ illegal _ this is (though he probably shouldn’t have expected any less), so he guesses he’s fucking stuck now, even though the hand-shaped bruise on his cheek isn’t from his foster parents this time.

_ This _ time, there’s nowhere else to turn.

 

*

 

     “Keith, get back here, damn it!” 

     Keith does  _ not _ follow the order; instead, he backs himself into the corner just as his legs give out. They’re shaking. His  _ whole body _ is shaking, though he can’t distinguish between fear and withdrawal at this point.

     But Ben is  _ mad _ , and Keith  _ is _ afraid. 

     He wraps his arms over his head and hides his face in his knees, taking several quick, gasping breaths in an attempt to calm himself. 

     He should pretend he didn’t mean to disappear for two days, but he  _ did _ \-- Ben can’t know, but he tried to get away from him for good. He tried to let it work itself out of his system but he  _ can’t _ do it, at least not by himself. He needs  _ help _ .

     He doesn’t know why he thought he could get any here.

     “I’m trying to  _ help _ you, you ungrateful  _ bitch _ ,” Ben growls, fingers twisting in his hair and forcing his head up. Keith’s almost too disoriented to feel the sharp pain in his scalp, but he whimpers regardless, hands latching onto Ben’s wrist to relieve the pressure. 

     “I don’t want it,” he gasps, words coming out so slurred and frantic it’s a miracle Ben understands him at all. 

     The grip on his hair loosens significantly, then disappears altogether, and Ben’s face floats into his line of sight. “You need it.”

     “I don’t  _ want _ it,” Keith repeats, giving a feeble attempt at pushing Ben’s other hand away -- the one with the hypodermic needle, the threat he’s spent several days trying to escape. 

     A thumb rubs slowly across his cheek, under the fading purple outline of the black eye Ben gave him last week. It crackles like static under his skin, making his nose scrunch up against the sensation. “It’ll make you feel better.”

     Keith needs him to understand. Just for once, he needs him to try to see things from a different point of view. Keith is  _ young _ , and he might be reckless and hopeless and kind of stupid, but his survival instinct overrides everything else. He’s desperate to just  _ live _ , and if he can live then he wants to  _ do something _ with his life, and the position he’s in is jeopardizing everything. “No,” he whispers, a tear dripping slowly down his cheek. He wipes it away before Ben can say anything about what a crybaby he is, or how being so sensitive is going to get him killed; before Ben can get  _ angry _ about what a  _ crybaby _ he is, because he’s already pissed Ben off plenty today. “I need it  _ out.” _

     “Well it’s too late for that!” Ben snaps, withdrawing the gentle touch. “It’s going to make you sick if you stop!”

     “I  _ need _ to!”

     “You should’ve thought of that before you  _ started!” _ Keith rears back and presses himself flat against the wall as Ben shoves further into his personal space, face contorted with rage. 

     “I didn’t…” He glances around the otherwise empty room like something in here will rescue him. “I didn’t want to,” He says finally, voice small, overwhelmed by the current of Ben’s seething anger. “You  _ made _ me--”

     “It was  _ your idea!” _ Ben screeches, fist connecting with the wall beside Keith’s head. Keith flinches harshly and cowers under the safety of his own arms again. He’s faintly aware of the smear of blood Ben’s knuckles leave on the pale brick before he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to calm his breathing again.

     It feels like he’s dying, and all he wanted was for someone to hold him and tell him it would be okay so that he could  _ handle _ withdrawal and get his life together, somehow. 

     He was an idiot to think he even deserved something like that.

     “No,” he murmurs against the curve of his own knees, pressing his hands tight over his head to make himself as small as possible. That can’t be. It  _ wasn’t _ his idea: Ben  _ forced _ this on him. Right?

     “ _ Yes _ . You  _ asked _ me to. Don’t you dare try to blame  _ me _ for this.” There’s a loud shuffling as Ben stands up again, then a bright burst of pain on his shin where a boot connects with his leg. It isn’t as harsh as usual, but he still cries out and cowers further into himself. 

     For one blessed second, Keith thinks it’s over, and that Ben is going to leave him alone. Just for a  _ little bit _ , just a moment, he wants Ben to  _ go away _ . 

     Then he’s being pulled to his feet, a bruising grip on his upper arm. 

     “ _ Dumbass, _ ” Ben mutters. Keith stumbles as he’s dragged towards the bed, clawing at Ben’s fingers because he’s pretty sure they’re cutting off his circulation.

     The mattress is so worn that when he lands on it, there’s no elasticity -- he doesn’t bounce, just sinks slightly into the ruined springs as they give out under his weight. Before he can do anything more than roll onto his back, Ben is on top of him. The sharp and unbearable pressure of knees on his wrists precedes an infinitely worse pressure around his throat.

     He can’t  _ breathe _ , and he can’t  _ do anything _ about it because Ben has his arms pinned and is effectively sitting on his legs to keep them still. The hand around his throat presses tighter when he starts squirming, trying to dislodge Ben’s knees, and there’s a peal of horrible laughter above him and the prick of a needle in the crook of his elbow.

     Just as black has begun to creep into the edges of his vision, the pressure relents and he’s finally able to drag some  _ air _ into his lungs. He isn’t able to fully appreciate the extent of the pain he’s in because the heroin Ben just injected him with is already dulling everything into a pleasant, warm tingle, but it isn’t enough to stop a sob from escaping him as his eyes fill with tears.

     “Fuck you,” he rasps, as Ben presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

     “That’s better,” Ben whispers, running his fingers through Keith’s hair.

     Keith shudders and closes his eyes, trying to imagine himself away from here. 

 

*

 

     His crappy old jacket is hardly an adequate barrier against the bitter cold wind, but it’s  _ his _ crappy old jacket and nothing in the world can stop him from wearing it, so he just curls tighter into himself and taps his foot impatiently. 

     This is  _ not _ the way he planned on spending his night. He has a math test tomorrow, and if he’s going to pass that class at all he has to at least do better than  _ complete failure _ , but Ben’s kept him out of class several times this month already, often enough to warrant a call to his foster parents and a consequent ass-kicking. Now he can’t even study for the test he’s about to fail, because the wind is too strong for him to have his books out and if Ben catches him slacking on the job he doesn’t  _ want _ to know what will happen. The fact that it’s the middle of the night -- the place where he’s forced to stand engulfed in darkness, making him nearly invisible -- doesn’t help much.

     So he lingers on the curb with his backpack tucked away under a bush somewhere behind him, praying no one tries to steal it, and breathes onto his fingers to warm them. And thinks about what he’s going to do now that he’s failing high school.

     The sound of shoes on the pavement a short distance away catches his attention. His head snaps up and he stares after the source of the noise. 

     A shadow passes under a streetlight about halfway down the block, a faint red glow radiating out from the silhouette before it disappears again. This must be the buyer. His heart stutters. He  _ hates _ this job, more than any other, because it always reminds him of how small and seemingly helpless he is. Other people see it, and some are stupid enough to try to take advantage of it. It wouldn’t be such a huge problem if he wasn’t as sickly and frail as he  _ looks _ . He can barely hold his own anymore, especially when Ben denies him hits until he comes crawling back with an acceptable amount of cash. It makes the beginnings of withdrawal coil through his gut and his lungs until he’s burning from the inside, and his arms and legs go numb, unable to do much more than support his weight and trade out the stupid arcade tokens for cash.

     The shadow appears again, much closer this time. Keith recognizes that the buyer is wearing a red hoodie, which is probably a lot warmer than the thin, worn fabric of his own jacket, but he’s too busy being exhausted to recognize the spike of envy towards someone who actually  _ has _ warm clothes.

     Ben used to offer his own hoodie when he made Keith do this; would bundle him up in it and hold him and kiss him until had to physically push him away, and back then he’d hated it, but now…

     Now, he’d kill to see Ben act like he gave a shit just  _ once _ more. 

     The buyer comes to a soft halt a few metres away. 

     “Tokens?” his voice carries on the wind, low and steady.

     “Got ‘em,” Keith mumbles, rattling the plastic bag in his pocket. They’re cheap plastic, and make an awful clinking noise against each other. “How much?”

     “Hundred.” The buyer steps closer, and since his eyes have adjusted to being in the dark this long, he looks up at the lumbering figure of a person almost twice his height, head held high. The cold doesn’t seem to bother him -- he isn’t even shivering, or giving any indication that the winter air is affecting him. Keith bites the inside of his cheek and prays Ben is watching out his window.

     At this hour, though, he’s probably dead asleep, or so high he can’t move. 

     He holds out his hand for the cash and a large, icy hand brushes over his as it’s deposited in his palm. He takes a few steps towards the nearest streetlight to count it, sighing when it only comes out to $90. “There’s only ninety here. I can give you nine golds, not ten.”

     “The fuck there is,” the guy rumbles, close behind him. “Count again.”

     He might be failing math class, but he can fucking  _ count. _ Keith sighs again, and counts again. “Ninety.”

     “Well, give me the hundred anyway. Lor let me off the hook before.” He doesn’t quite sound like he’s asking, but Keith isn’t well-known for his impeccable reasoning.

     “Lor’s dead,” he says bluntly, turning back towards the buyer. “She OD’ed last month. You can have nine.”

     He pulls the bag of coins from his pocket and pries it open, completely unaware of the fist aimed at his abdomen until it connects and he slumps to the ground, all the air forced from his lungs. The  _ clink _ of plastic coins hitting pavement jars him from his momentary stupor. 

     “The  _ fu--” _ he starts, before the heel of a shoe digs sharply into his back with enough force to bruise his ribs, if not break them.

     “Ten,  _ bitch.” _

     He almost tells the guy to just fucking  _ take _ them, but he’s already aware that some people derive pleasure from other peoples’ pain and this asshole isn’t just doing this for the arcade tokens. He also knows Ben  _ will _ kill him if he lets someone take more than they pay for, so he rolls out from under the guy just as his foot comes down again, grunting with the effort it takes to haul himself back to his feet. Half his brain -- the reasonable part, the part he ignores because he’s already fucked up this much, so what’s the  _ point? _ \-- is telling him to run.  _ Get the hell out of here. _ The other half is obeying the “fight” part of his fight or flight response, and he parries a second fist coming towards him with little thought on the matter. Fighting is habitual. This is rote memory at this point, instinct carrying him through the process of dodging and blocking until he can find an opening, and then his bony knuckles land a quick blow to the idiot’s sternum. 

     It must take him by surprise (the fact that the little junkie in front of him can even  _ throw a punch _ , let alone one so precise), because he huffs out a strangled breath and doubles over, clutching at his ribs. Keith takes the opportunity to grab the back of his head and drive a knee into his face, and the guy cries out in pain when his nose breaks.

     Still gasping for air, Keith turns and starts hobbling up the walkway to the front door of the dilapidated, piece of shit house Ben bought with money that Keith is pretty sure  _ he _ earned. Of course, he’s not going to bring that up with Ben, because he’s dangerous and Keith isn’t  _ stupid; _ he’ll take what he can get, and if it means he doesn’t wake up on the cement floor of a drafty warehouse all the time, he’ll let Ben force him to spend the night at the house and deal with whatever Reggie and Georgia dish out when the time comes. 

     He’s just placing a foot onto the rickety front stoop when a hand latches onto the collar of his jacket and he’s sent toppling backwards, vision whiting out when his head bounces off the pavement. The force of it vibrates through his  _ teeth, _ and before he can reorient himself there’s a weight on top of him and a fist smashes into the side of his face. Blood fills his mouth so fast it almost chokes him, but he manages to squirm around just enough to loosen the grip around his waist and roll onto his stomach, clawing at the pavement to pull himself away.

     A mixture of blood and saliva splatters across the ground in front of him when he spits, and he’s pretty sure a tooth or two goes with it. 

     He doesn’t get a chance to focus on that before something pierces into his lower abdomen, just shy of his spine, and he jolts and screams out in pain.  _ He’s going to die,  _ he realizes when the blade is withdrawn and the reality of the situation sinks in.

     He’s just been stabbed, and this guy probably wants to see him suffer before he kills him, and Ben probably couldn’t care less. 

     At least the knife was relatively small, it seems -- it could have been worse, could have sliced all the way through and out the other side, could have paralyzed him. He whimpers and tries to drive an elbow up into his attacker’s face, but his arm is quickly pinned and it’s too dark for him to even see where anything is, let alone where the blade might strike next.

     The godawful creaking of the hinges on the front door startles him out of his panic, and he can’t look over his shoulder to see Ben just he sure as fuck sees the porch light go on and illuminate the world around him: plastic tokens scattered on the sidewalk, a trail of blood droplets leading up the walkway, the bright red of his backpack standing out amongst the dull leaves of the dead bushes lining the pavement. 

     “Get the fuck off him.”

     Somewhere behind him, Keith hears the distinct click of a gun being cocked, and he tenses. Ben isn’t going to shoot this guy, right?

     Keith doesn’t want to be an accomplice to murder, on top of everything else.

     Sure, Ben uses the gun to threaten people sometimes -- he’s threatened  _ Keith _ with it on several occasions -- but he’s never aimed it at anyone who wasn’t part of their organization, and somehow Keith knows that he’d feel absolutely no remorse killing someone who doesn’t work for him. 

     He shudders and tries not to think about a dead body falling on top of him.

     The knife lands on the pavement so close to his face that he jumps, and then the pressure of another body on his disappears and he realizes he’s been crying when he lets out a shuddering sob. He hides his face against the rough surface beneath him and counts until there are no more tears in his eyes and he can hear frantic footfalls retreating towards the street.

     The sudden presence of hands on him again makes him wince, but it’s just Ben grabbing him under the armpits and lifting him to his feet. For a second, he thinks he’s going to get a hug, or maybe Ben is bringing him inside to get him some medical attention, but he’s just shoved in the opposite direction of the house. “ _ Dumbass!  _ Pick them up!”

     “Wh--?” Disoriented, Keith reaches down to feel the point of radiating pain in his lower back, hand coming away coated in blood. “What?”

     “The fuckin’ tokens! Don’t just leave ‘em out on the pavement like that! Pick them up!” Another shove and he’s sent sprawling on the ground again. 

     He’s bleeding a  _ lot. _ He thinks he’s bleeding  _ too much, _ but he’s in such a state of shock that he can’t seem to articulate that and instead he gets himself back on his feet and stumbles over to the plastic bag laying open by the side of the road. Several coins rolled out when he dropped it, and it takes him longer than necessary to put them all back because his hands are shaking too much to pick anything up. He smears blood on some of them, then has to wipe them off on the grass so Ben doesn’t get pissed. Or, more pissed than he already is.

     “Fucking  _ useless,”  _ Ben growls, snatching the bag out of his hands before Keith can even struggle to his feet again. He stalks off towards the front door and throws it open. “ _ Julio!  _ Get your ass out here!”

     Every movement of Keith’s right leg is agonizing, pulling at the torn muscles in his back, but he hobbles back into the house anyway, sweat running down the sides of his face despite the bitterly cold air around him. Panting, he tips onto the pull-out couch and curls around himself just as Julio comes stomping down the stairs. “The fuck is going on, man? It's two in the morning!” he grumbles, in the process of putting a shirt on. 

     Keith has a pretty good idea of what they were doing up there, and in any other circumstances he'd be just as pissed as every other time he's caught Ben in bed with someone else. 

     “I don't think so!” Yet again, he's being manhandled, dragged off the couch until he lands on his ass on the hardwood floor. The impact sends a flare of pain up his back and he groans and lets himself go limp. A dirty towel lands and the floor near his head. “You're gonna fuck up my blankets, dumbass.” 

     Ben is honest to god going to make him bleed to death on the floor, isn't he?  

     “Jesus, what happened? Is that blood?” Through blurred vision, Keith can see Julio moving towards him, but Ben stops him with a hand on his chest. 

     “Dumbass got himself stabbed. Go take over distribution.”

     “Wha--  _ hold on,  _ he probably needs to go to the hospital.” Julio pushes Ben out of the way and enters the living room, resting a hand on Keith's hip and rolling him slightly to get a better look at the wound.

     Keith closes his eyes and sighs quietly, letting his head fall to rest on the towel. The smell of mildew makes him scrunch up his nose in disgust. At the very least, he doesn't  _ feel  _ like he's dying. He's come close before, and this is less of a soothing, calm ocean that he's being lulled into and more sharpened senses; pain and panic.

     He isn't dying, but he's pretty sure Julio’s right. He needs medical attention.

     “Hell no, you need to get outside and deal with this shit!” The bag of tokens clatters to the floor nearby, but Keith is too tired to lift his head and look at what’s happening. The shock is starting to fade, he thinks, and it’s making him more aware of the combined discomfort of withdrawal and all his injuries.

     “Get someone else to do it, or get me a first aid kit and do it yourself,” Julio snaps, letting go of Keith. He rolls back onto his side and tries to find a position that doesn’t irritate the stab wound. There isn’t one, and he doesn’t quite have the energy to fuss about it. 

     “I’m not wasting anything on that. He’ll be fine! Just leave ‘im!” 

     “For fuck’s sake, Ben! He’s just a kid!” Julio’s voice is further away, now, retreating back towards the entryway.

     He doesn’t like yelling. He especially isn’t fond of screaming matches. Throw a particularly nasty wound and the full-body weakness he’s experiencing into the equation, and he feels like a helpless little kid again, hiding under a bed and wishing to fall asleep and wake up somewhere else. 

     So he lets himself drift, watching a single point on the ugly yellow wall across from him like something is ever going to change, and tunes out the argument that Julio’s defiance sparks. Why is he even trying to help him?

     He’s never considered Julio a friend. They’re acquaintances, maybe, but Julio is just someone who’s stuck in the same hole he is, who fools around with Ben even though Keith is pretty sure Ben is  _ his _ boyfriend (they’ve never given it an official term; maybe Ben doesn’t care as much as Keith thought he did, who even  _ knows).  _ Julio is just another person he sees asleep on the floor of this stupid house sometimes, who he steps over on his way out the door to go back to Georgia and Reggie’s before they decide he’s been gone “too long”.

     He’s never looked at Julio twice, and as far as he’s concerned, Julio couldn’t care less about him. 

     He’d like to say he appreciates the concern, but every time Ben does something for him, he ends up having to repay his debt tenfold.

     The sound of a gunshot -- an  _ actual _ gunshot, not just Ben fucking around trying to scare people -- snaps him out of his daze, but he can’t bring himself to move and see what the hell is going on in the other room. Instead, he flinches,  _ hard, _ as his ears start ringing and hisses when the movement aggravates his wound further. 

     Then there’s the familiar sensation of a needle in his arm and the numbing warmth floods through him, settling his nerves and drowning out the continued screaming.

     He doesn’t feel safe enough to fall asleep here, but he lets it happen anyway.

  
  


     Keith is tired. And sore.

     In all kinds of places.

     He could also  _ really _ use a drink. 

     With a quiet groan, he rolls himself onto his side to relieve the pressure against his lower back, which is returning to a state of dull throbbing as the heroin wears off.

     “You gotta get out of here,” a voice nearby says softly.

     He opens his eyes and glares at Julio, who isn’t even looking at him; all his attention is focused on the smartphone in his hand. 

     “Can’t,” Keith whispers. For a moment, he wonders where the hell Ben went. Is he dead? Keith kind of wishes he would die, but the thought terrifies him just as much as it enthralls him.

     He’s nobody without Ben.

     “You’re gonna have to. He was tryin’ to let you bleed out on the floor.”

     “I didn’t.”

     “You could’ve.”

     “You ain’t my mom.” Keith rolls back over to stare at the ceiling. He tucks a hand under his shirt and feels the bandages wrapped around his lower abdomen. “I didn’t need your stupid help.”

     “Why are you here?” Julio asks, like he hasn’t spoken at all. Keith glares at him again and Julio tosses the phone onto the armchair beside him. “You got someone you’re looking out for?”

     Keith snorts. “Yeah.  _ Myself.” _

     “No point hangin’ around here if you ain’t got no one to take care of. Me, I got family. Little brothers and sisters, sick mom. I need the money. I ain’t no junkie, not like the rest of you, and I don’t need shit from Ben. I got medical bills to worry about, y’know?”

     “Don’t care.” He wishes they had some painkillers here, or something that might knock him out again. He’s sick of using Ben’s drugs to numb every little ache, or to help him sleep.

     “You gotta get out of here,” Julio tells him again. “He’s making you sick.”

     “I’m  _ fine.” _

     “He’s no good for you, kid.”

     “I ain’t a kid.”

     Julio sighs exaggeratedly and flops down into the chair, shaking his head. “You wanna die?”

     “I ain’t gonna die.” He fights to keep his voice level and as monotone as possible, because he knows it’s a lie.

     Wouldn’t death be kind, at this point?

     “It happens to most people like you, sooner or later,” he says, firm, and Keith can  _ feel _ the weight of his gaze.

     “Why’d you even help me?” he asks, but Julio stands and marches straight out the front door. The  _ creak _ of the hinges precedes the sound of the door slamming into its frame.

  
  


     It isn’t until weeks later, while he’s watching a police officer hovering over Julio’s prone body in the street, engaged in calm discussion with her partner like there isn’t a  _ dead person _ lying on the ground between them, that he understands the magnitude of the situation and the intent behind their conversation. 

 

*

 

     He still has to go to school, maintain some illusion of okay-ness, so he doesn’t get caught. His catastrophic grades haven’t been quite enough to catch anyone’s attention yet, because they’re not much more horrible than they have been in the past, regardless of intervention. If the agency realizes that something is wrong, they’ll investigate, and Keith is conflicted between wishing they  _ would _ so they could drag him away to a new city, and praying they don’t because he’s scared about what might happen to him if he’s taken from Ben so suddenly.

     He shuffles past several booths promoting post-secondary schools for the grade eleven and twelve students, trying not to make a face as he thinks about how he’ll  _ never get that far.  _ Someone bumps into him and he hunches further into himself, veering into a new hallway with … more fucking booths.

     The banner in this hallway proudly declares “Opportunities For Grade 9 & 10 Students” in bold yellow lettering on a dark blue background, with an unnecessary amount of smiling yellow faces decorating it. It’s hideous.

     Unfortunately, his locker is down this way, so he has to endure the colourful signs and noisy chatter of this hallway to get there.

     His last hit is wearing off and it’s leaving him  _ miserable. _ He barely spares a glance at a group of boisterous students stomping along to the nearest booth, yelling and laughing.

     He tries to ignore it  _ all, _ bitterness swelling up inside him like an agitated swarm of bees. 

_ If only. _

     He tries to ignore it, but a voice beside him seizes his attention and drags his gaze up from the floor. 

     “Keith?”

  
  


     Takashi Shirogane is at his school.

     That’s … fine, except that  _ Takashi Shirogane _ is wearing a stiff uniform and sporting a somewhat non-standard military cut, standing tall and proud and looking shocked out of his damn mind at the sight of a scrawny, skittish Keith before him. 

     It’s  _ fine, _ except  _ Shiro _ is wearing a  _ Galaxy Garrison _ uniform and Keith is suddenly the biggest failure on the planet.

     Yet, simultaneously,  _ elated.  _

     “Shiro,” he breathes, his battered notebook slipping out of his arms.

     Shiro watches him intently for a moment, and Keith is rooted to the spot, barely able to breathe for fear of shattering this illusion. “Keith, I … it’s been a while; how are you?”

     He can tell just by looking that Keith is  _ definitely _ not okay, and it shows in the way his eyes harden as Keith carefully crouches to pick up his book.

     “I’ve, uh…” Keith hesitates, glancing around at the other people crowding the corridor, who are all much too preoccupied to notice this exchange.

     Shiro looks at him and he probably sees what he’s become. A failure. A coward. Useless.  _ Helpless. _

     Keith looks at Shiro and sees a way out. 

     “Shiro,” he says, like he’s just realizing he’s there. “I need your help.”

     “Keith, what’s wrong?” His eyes are alight with concern, his whole body curling forward as though to shelter Keith from all the awful things he’s done to himself.

     “No, nothing. I mean, n-not nothing, I just…” Keith sucks in a trembling breath. “I can’t tell you here. Can you meet me tonight? At the McDonald’s down the street. At, uh...” Heroin keeps his brain sufficiently fuzzy, so he fumbles for an address, a _ time.  _

     “I know the one. Passed it on the way here.” Shiro isn’t even trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “At four o’clock, okay?”

     Keith nods once, eyes wide, and scurries off down the hall.

 

*

 

     “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

     He knows what he looks like -- thin, frail, twitching and rubbing at his face. It’s almost worn off, and he keeps needing more and more to keep going, and he knows eventually this will kill him but Ben  _ won’t help, _ of course he won’t, Keith can’t believe he ever trusted that bastard.

     “Fuckin’ freak.” Zach, the grade eleven boy who’s still in grade nine math, yanks Keith to the ground by the strap of his backpack. “Hey! Freak, you listenin’?”

     “I heard from a couple kids he’s been doing drugs,” another boy sneers. Keith doesn’t know his name, but he remembers who he is. He remembers all of them.

     A bunch of aggressive little assholes with too much pent-up anger and too many control issues.

     “Ooh, you gonna share, little fag?” Zach grabs him by the hair and  _ pulls, _ like he’s trying to lift Keith to his feet. He sees that chart in Kaitlyn’s fucking office again -- red, red,  _ red. _

_ “Fuck you!” _ he growls, and swings his backpack up into Zach’s face.

     A third boy grabs onto him from behind, but these scuffles have become routine enough for Keith that he’s already ducking out of the grasp before he can get a proper grip on Keith’s shirt.

     Even with three people who have a significant size advantage converging on him, Keith doesn’t go down easy. Adrenaline-fueled rage is a pretty solid asset as far as ignoring pain goes, so he barely registers a punch to the face or a kick in the gut. Not only that, but he’s developed the  _ experience _ required to win a real fight.

     Not just the choreographed, rigid form of jiu jitsu. People fight differently in real life situations. He uses his training every time this happens, yes, but that only gets him so far.

     He holds stance once he’s dragged himself back to his feet, pulls back his full weight and punches Zach in the face so hard that he  _ feels _ the skin on his knuckles split open. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should, the blood that gushes out of his hand, since he’s watching Zach collapse to the ground, unconscious.

     Zach’s annoying fucking friend launches himself at him and Keith elbows him in the  _ throat, _ triumph glowing in his eyes when the kid gasps, wheezes, and topples over.

     He takes off running before the third boy can catch him.

  
  


     It’s a bit after four when Keith stumbles into McDonald’s and collapses into a booth opposite Shiro, who is already leaping to his feet and checking Keith over like a fretful mother.

     “Jesus, Keith, what happened? Who did this?” he demands, holding his face and tilting it carefully to the side as he assesses the darkening bruise on his cheekbone.

     “Some kids from school. They’re in worse shape. Listen,” Keith says in hurry, trying to push Shiro back a bit. Instead, Shiro catches his trembling, bloodied hands in his own and looks up at him, inquiring. “I just-- ugh, no, I’m so hungry, let me eat first.”

     He doesn’t know if his hands are shaking like that because he’s teetering dangerously close to the edge of withdrawal, or because of the adrenaline wearing off, or because he hasn’t bothered with a proper meal yet this week, but Shiro watches him shake with a resigned look of comprehension and insists that he sit down and relax.

     He returns a few minutes later with a tray loaded with food; Keith immediately begins scarfing down fries like he’s been dying of starvation. He has been, essentially.

     “You’re in the Garrison now,” Keith states around a mouthful of food. “That’s cool.”

     “Yeah,” Shiro says, raising an eyebrow. “That was the plan all along, right?”

     Keith hums and looks away in embarrassment. 

     “And in a year and a half, you’ll be there, too.”

     Shame burns in Keith’s face, turning his ears red. “Um.” He finishes the rest of his burger slowly. “Probably not. My grades are real bad now, s-so I probably can’t anymore. Sorry.”

     Shiro rests his chin on his hands and continues to watch him, gaze even; Keith grows increasingly self-conscious. “What are you planning on doing, then?”

     Ah, the million-dollar question. Keith keeps putting it off. He might as well do his best to finish high school instead of being swept up in a fantasy about prestigious space programs, right? Finish high school (assuming he lives that long) and then … nothing?

     Must be what he was really meant for all along.

     He doesn’t even have it in him to lie right now. His legs have begun shaking, too, sending tremors up his whole body. “I-I-I dunno. I haven’t put, uh, much thought into it.”

     “The Keith I know has his heart set on interstellar travel. Weren’t we going to go fight aliens together or something? Save the galaxy?” Shiro sets him with a playful smirk and Keith gives a wobbly half-smile in return.

     “They wouldn’t take me anymore. I’m -- I’m too stupid, and I have too much of a history, and I, uh, I can’t … I shouldn’t say, Shiro,” he says, lowering his voice and trying his damnedest to hold Shiro’s gaze, because Keith is already perfectly aware of how perceptive Shiro is. “You know they won’t take me like this.”

     “Why?” Shiro asks, and the tone he uses, the way he holds himself -- Keith knows he’s not asking why he won’t be able to get into the Garrison.

     “I d-didn’t want to,” he rasps, fighting tears that form at the thought that Shiro might  _ judge _ him for this. “You have to believe me, I ... Shiro, I never wanted to, and I knew I shouldn’t because I  _ knew _ what a huge risk it was I just--” He stops to slow his breathing. It feels like his chest is shaking now, too. It feels like he’s feeling too much, and really, he  _ hasn’t _ felt this much in months. He would typically be back with Ben by now, high out of his mind and letting them all do whatever they wanted with him, but he  _ can’t _ go back there anymore, and he knows it.

     Eventually, all of this is going to kill him, and he’s being not-so-subtly reminded that he had  _ dreams _ and  _ aspirations _ once upon a time. That throwing them to the wayside was  _ too _ easy and would come back to bite him in the ass.

     Or, apparently, hold his hand at a table in a filthy old downtown McDonald’s. 

     Shiro squeezes his hand and smiles down at him, and Keith wishes he could go back to the days of playing Aliens vs Astronauts and watching  _ Star Trek _ and having dreams for the future, even if it meant going back to one of the worst places he’s ever lived.  

     “I just le _ -let _ him do this, and I  _ hate _ it but I can’t stop, because I feel like I’ll die when I do. That’s why I wanted you here, Shiro. I need help.”

     “There are programs for this, Keith,” Shiro starts, but Keith shakes his head vehemently.

_      “No. _ That’s the  _ problem. _ I can’t get help, because then the Garrison will find out somehow and they wouldn’t let me in, they  _ wouldn’t, _ you know that.” He’s gripping Shiro’s hand like a lifeline, determined to keep his mind present. “I can’t get rid of it on my own. I tried … I tried, one time, to tie myself down and just let it clear out of my system, but it was  _ too easy  _ to get out and go back to him and … I can’t, Shiro, it was awful. I can’t do it by myself.”

     He can detect apprehension in Shiro’s face even as he nods slowly and offers a reassuring smile. “Okay. That’s okay. What do you need me to do?”

  
  
  


     There’s sweat pouring down his back, and it feels freezing even in the warm March breeze. Keith curls into himself and gasps for air. 

     His insides are on fire, or being run through a blender, or maybe stabbed full of needles.

     It’s barely been twenty-four hours and he’s struggling to walk on his own. How pathetic.

     “Hey, it’s okay, I got you,” Shiro says somewhere above him, and he realizes he’s been whimpering. An arm slides under his and lifts him slightly, Shiro’s forward momentum assisting him in taking another concerningly uneven step.

     “We-we’re almost there,” Keith gasps around the dry fire searing his lungs. Even if he wanted to (and he  _ does, _ oh god he does), there’s not a chance in hell he could turn and run back to Ben now. He’d never make it far enough for another hit. Right now, his  _ only _ option is detox.

     Past his foster parents’ apartment building, down several blocks in the opposite direction of the warehouse, far, far from Ben’s new home, they stagger up through the alley to the back entrance of the old building Keith tried to detox in the first time.

     The windows along the back wall are shattered, remnants of broken glass long since trampled to bits and washed away in the rain, and it’s so abandoned that even most rats don’t bother with it.

     Kids at the high school sometimes whisper about it at parties, about how it’s supposedly haunted and everyone who goes in there dies.

     Logically, Keith thinks, it’s just an empty convenience store that fell to ruin, the apartment above it occasionally inhabited by a vagabond or two, should they dare venture inside.

     But looking at it now, in the dying light of day while his brain is swimming in a withdrawal-induced haze, it  _ is _ eery. He can’t believe he almost spent the night alone here once.

     “I have,” he starts as Shiro hauls him in through the back door that’s hanging off its hinges, “I have stuff here, still, maybe.” He waves him half-heartedly towards the stairs.

     Sure enough, the handful of belts and cords he’d restrained himself with a couple months ago are still here, collecting dust where they’re hung off the bed frame and scattered on the floor.

     From his jacket pocket, he produces the bottle of pills he stole from the pharmacy (which was perhaps one of the most terrifying nights of his life, and he thanks every star in the universe he didn’t get caught). He pops a couple in his mouth before handing the bottle to Shiro. “Rapid detox,” he explains, pushing his greasy, overgrown hair out of his eyes. “Should only take five or six hours, I think.”

     Without further ado, he shuffles back on the bed and lies down, holding his wrists out invitingly.

     Shiro shakes his head disbelievingly and puts the pills in his own pocket. “I need you to know this goes against every single moral I live by, and you are the  _ only _ person I would ever be able to do this for.”

     Keith nods impatiently and puts the loose end of a strip of shredded bedsheet in Shiro’s hand. “I’m going to scream,” he says calmly. “A-and probably beg you to let me go. It … it  _ really, really _ hurts. But whatever I say or do, don’t untie me for at  _ least _ eight hours. Just to be sure.”

_ “Jesus, _ Keith,” Shiro says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

     Keith’s teeth clench around an apology as Shiro secures his arms to the head of the bed.

     “Do I really need to tie your feet down, too?” Shiro asks softly, and Keith nods, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

     “Not too tight, though, I guess.”

 

*

 

     God, everything is  _ awful.  _

     Keith actually _ has _ almost died before, on several occasions, and somehow this is worse than  _ all  _ of them.

     Infinitely worse.

     No fucking  _ wonder _ he went crawling back to Ben last time.

     “Shiro,” he pleads weakly, straining against the makeshift ropes. There are three on each arm, so escaping is a distant dream.

     But he  _ needs _ to get out.

     Or he needs someone here who will help him the way he needs to be helped right now, with a needle and  _ euphoria. _

     “Shiro, please,  _ please _ let me out.”

     The sweat running down his forehead is burning his eyes, mixing with his tears, and he shudders and throws his head back as a full-body convulsion seizes him, twisting and distorting his muscles. _ “Shiro!” _

     There’s nothing but silence from the hallway. Is Shiro even here still?

     Probably not.

     Somehow that hurts more than everything he’s experiencing physically right now.

_ “Fine,”  _ Keith snarls, an agonized sob bubbling up out of his burning chest. “I didn’t … I didn’t fucking need you here,  _ anyway.” _

     The hallway remains dead quiet and as dark as the approaching night outside, and Keith bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a scream.

     “I didn’t even expect you to  _ stay,  _ so  _ whatever. _ No one else ever fucking does, anyway. Fuck.  _ Fuck!” _ he screams at the ceiling.

     There are vibrantly coloured spots swimming in and out of focus around him, and an immobilizing ache building behind his eyes.

     “Keith, I’m right here,” Shiro says softly somewhere above him, form indiscernible among the spots obscuring his vision. He’s faintly aware that he’s shaking like a leaf, the unstable metal bed frame creaking warningly beneath him.

     Something cool brushes over his face and settles on his forehead; Shiro’s hand applies gentle pressure to hold the wet fabric in place. He becomes acutely aware that he's absolutely  _ freezing. _ “It’s okay.”

     “Shiro,” Keith rasps, turning in the direction of his voice. He begins crying anew, even though the harsh movements aggravate the unbelievable migraine pulsing through his whole head. 

     He feels a tingle at the back of his neck, like a precursor, before his head pitches violently to the side like someone  _ forced _ it over, twisting back the opposite way he’s trying to turn his body, then his vision blurs more with the overwhelming colours and he  _ thinks _ he can feel the muscles in the whole rest of his body seizing up, too, before…

_ Nothing. _

  
  


     When Keith comes to, he’s turned over onto his side with his right leg untied and two of three restraints on his right arm undone. His arm is stretched over the edge of the bed and his leg is bent to rest atop the other.

     The smell of vomit hangs distinctly in the air, suffocating.

     Keith grimaces, spits out the bitter taste lingering in his mouth (it doesn’t change much), and opens his eyes to see Shiro hovering over him looking terrified.

     There’s a cellphone lighting up on the floor nearby, flashing as someone apparently tries to call Shiro, who’s a bit preoccupied wiping Keith’s face and the bed around him with the washcloth.

     Oh, that’s a handkerchief. 

     What the hell kind of nerd still carries around a handkerchief?

     Keith lets out a tiny, breathless laugh before an unbearable pain hits him in the gut and he gasps, curling into himself.

     “Keith, what’s wrong?” Shiro asks softly, a hand on his cheek. 

     “Hurts,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut.

     His organs have resorted to tearing themselves apart, apparently.

     Shiro doesn’t say anything after that, seemingly at a loss, but his hand rests on Keith’s elbow where he’s wrapped his arms around his abdomen, offering comfort.

     This continues for what feels like years, the cramps becoming progressively more intense and drawn-out.

     Keith thinks he’s going to be sick again. He opens his mouth and gags but nothing comes out, and the next cramp seems to reach from his ribs to his knees, forcing every muscle below his shoulders to tense.

     It’s all he can do to open his mouth and scream.

  
  
  


     “Let me the  _ fuck out,” _ Keith screeches, rattling the bed as he yanks furiously at the ropes Shiro has fastened around his limbs again. He’s dying and the only solution is to go find Ben. He can hardly breathe through all the pain he’s in, and even as he repeatedly attempts to free his arms, his frame trembles dangerously, spasms running up and down his back. “So help me fucking  _ God,  _ let me out  _ now.” _

     “You know I can’t do that to you.” Shiro is sitting on a worryingly unstable folding chair in the far corner of the room, watching Keith intently like he’s waiting for him to spontaneously combust.

     Keith growls and kicks his legs, the fabric of his pants chafing his skin where the bindings twist and pull taut. “Then you’re a  _ shit friend.” _ He can feel tears burning his eyes and blinks rapidly to hide them. His shoulders tense up painfully, then a shudder runs through him and the coloured spots start appearing in his vision again, this time less intense. He groans and closes his eyes, trying to shake away the growing headache. “You--” he gasps and curls his hands into fists when a wave of pain rocks through him. “You’re gonna sit the-there and let this  _ happen?” _ His voice breaks and he turns his head away from Shiro. 

     “Yes, because that’s what’s best for you, and a ‘shit friend’ would let you out of here to go continue ruining your life,” Shiro responds, deadly calm. “A good friend would make sure you don’t keep hurting yourself like that.”

     “A  _ good friend _ wouldn’t have abandoned me in the  _ first place,” _ Keith says through the haze of pain, disorientation, and impending seizure.

     Shiro sounds much closer, now, and Keith feels the belt around his wrist come loose but he’s too far gone to do anything with the opportunity. The colours flare up and he feels everything spasm before it fades away again.

 

*

 

_ “--just send a text like that and disappear! Do you have any idea what time it is!”  _

     Keith tries to cover his ears, which are feeling suddenly over-sensitive, but he can only move his right hand far enough, so he presses his left ear into the pungent mattress beneath him.

     “I know, Adam, I’ve been pretty busy. I’m sorry I didn’t answer,” says Shiro, soft --  _ nearby. _

_ “And we aren’t supposed to be out of our quarters at night!” _

     “I was with Iverson at the school today. I told him I had a family emergency and he said he’d deal with it. You know he isn’t actually the devil, right?”

     Keith whimpers, opening his eyes just in time to see Shiro in the doorway, turning towards him, relief washing over his features. Oh, he’s been moved into the recovery position again.

     “I have to go,” Shiro says. “I’ll explain later.” He hangs up his phone and kneels beside Keith, brushing his sweat-drenched hair off of his face. “You didn’t throw up this time,” he offers, and Keith attempts a smile, but it’s abruptly overwhelmed by the tremors as they return, and instead his face contorts in pain.

     “This sucks,” he breathes, letting his free arm fall onto the bed, limp.

     Shiro only puts one restraint back on, then settles more comfortably on the floor to hold his hand. “I know. I’m here now.”

     “Thanks.” A fat tear rolls down Keith’s cheek and soaks into the dirty mattress.

     He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of Shiro’s hand in his own.

* * *

 


	13. And You Can Have This Heart to Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am NOT proofreading these so please don't judge me for my mistakes. But do point them out if they're really bad so I can fix them.

* * *

 

     This is, if Keith’s memory serves him correctly, his twenty-sixth foster home. That’s not counting the various stays in multiple different group homes.

     He doesn’t understand what stability is like, except in little twinges of envy as he watches a classmate claw dramatically out of his mother’s embrace through the window of the office,  or overhears a phone call that ends with, “I love you.”

     There are things he  _ does _ understand.

     This is  _ yet another _ new school, and  _ yet again _ nothing has changed -- nobody likes him. He can understand that much. He never knows  _ why, _ except that he’s weird and he’s different but no one has ever  _ explained. _

     He understands that there’s no one around to do the explaining.

     He understands that he hasn’t made any friends. 

     He understands that he’s being targeted, and that fighting back can’t be an option because it only ever gets him in trouble.

     He understands that there’s a girl a few years older than him who wears tight black clothes and dark eye makeup, whose nails are painted black, and whom everyone else avoids like the plague. 

     Keith doesn’t dare approach her, but he observes from afar, the way he does with all his peers now. It isn’t that people don’t  _ notice _ her; it’s that they seem to be  _ afraid _ of her. He doesn’t know if it’s her appearance or something she’s done to make them afraid, but he’s willing to make bets if it means being left the fuck alone for once. 

     He plasters on the best fake smile he can force, tries to arrange the ratty clothes he’s outgrowing into something presentable, and knocks on doors around his current foster home. Leaves are falling, faster and faster every day, and most people are too busy with kids or work, or too old and frail, to do anything about it. He asks for whatever they can offer in return for his services (he ends up raking a few lawns for free, but he feels guilty asking people who can barely walk to their own front door for money for something like that). 

     And once he has  _ something _ to work with, he makes the two-hour trek to the mall and buys his own clothes for the first time ever. It’s liberating. It’s almost fun. He’s a little giddy as he nabs a few pairs of black jeans off a rack and hurries them into a changing room, and more than elated at the feeling of wearing clothes that aren’t worn and weathered by previous owners. They fit well, and the material is thick and sturdy. There isn’t the threat of holes already lingering at the knees and the bottoms aren’t frayed. 

     He spends most of the money he’s earned, and as an afterthought uses the rest at the drug store to buy an eyeliner pen, following a long conversation with a woman who works there who seems confused about his lack of knowledge. He’s never done this before. He hasn’t done any of this before. Not the independent shopping trips, or having his own money --  _ really _ his own, something he’s  _ earned.  _ He’s never tried on clothes at a mall before. He’s never had the freedom of  _ choice. _ He’s definitely never bought makeup, even if he has worn it.

_ Distantly, through the stable connection they’ve managed to maintain through all of this, he feels Lance’s twinge of fear. And Keith understands why, now that he has the life experience to tell him that-- _

     “What the fuck?” The words are forced out around derisive laughter. Keith lifts his chin to glare at the kids who stopped dead in the parking lot to glare at him. 

     He wonders if this will work the same for him as it does for that girl who seems immune to the dangers of this school.

     “Oh! I get it. Duh.” The girl with bleached, dead hair slaps a palm to her forehead and nudges the boy beside her -- the one who tried to push Keith over the railing at the top of the stairs last week. “He’s a  _ fairy.” _

     Keith’s chin drops a little. “Huh?” he says without meaning to.

     “That’s  _ disgusting,” _ the boy says, pale lips twisting into a grimace. “Jesus, fairy boy, don’t you know you aren’t allowed around here? Huh? Nobody wants your  _ AIDS.” _

     “What the hell are you talking ab--?” Keith starts to ask. He’s blindsided by a blow to his cheek before he can finish. 

     It’s funny, because the  _ first _ thing he thinks when he goes down is  _ don’t fight back.  _ And that’s never been who he is, but he’s been repeating it like a prayer to himself for  _ months _ and when it springs up in his head he knows it’s right. If he fights back, chances are he loses this home, and this school. And things have been worse. Things  _ could be _ worse, and with his luck they  _ will _ be if he fucks this up again. 

     He can’t afford to fuck this up again. Not with Shiro going out of his way to give Keith extra lessons in classes he’s behind in, and pulling strings trying to find a way to get him into the Garrison. He can’t  _ add _ to his shitty track record while Shiro is so busy trying to draw attention away from it.

     He gets up to run away instead, which is something he wouldn’t dream of in a fight he  _ knows _ he can win. And he can win this -- against three kids his own age, none of whom have anything  _ close _ to the training and experience he does? He could win this with his eyes closed.

     But he runs because he  _ has _ to, not for the sake of his safety but for the sake of his future, even if he’s not sure where those two things are supposed to come apart.

     One of them tackles him to the ground, and blood splatters across the asphalt when his chin bounces off of it. 

     As if the wind wasn’t already knocked out of him, a fist to the back of his ribs ensures he can’t even  _ try _ to suck in a breath. Someone cackles above him.  _ Don’t fight back. _ The same fist hits the back of his head, and it makes his forehead collide with the asphalt. “Fags don’t fight back, Adrian,” a voice says over the ringing in his ears. “I already told you that.”

     Something else, something heavier and more solid -- a boot, he  _ thinks _ \-- slams down on his head. He’s blinded by blood when he manages to open his eyes again. “...too easy.”

     Fingers curl into his hair and  _ yank _ backwards, bending his neck up into an unnatural position that makes it even  _ harder _ to breathe. “Aren’t you?” The kid who’s pinning him, weight bearing down on his spine, leans in close to growl in his ear. “Huh?” The hand in his hair pulls again and Keith actually  _ whimpers. _

_ Don’t _

_      fight _

_      back. _

     “You’re a weak little cocksucker. Say it.”

     Keith would laugh if he wasn’t in this situation. He isn’t  _ weak. _ He  _ refuses  _ to be weak.

     “Say it!”

     He doesn’t. The only response the boy on top of him gets is a desperate, wheezing inhale.

     His other hand twists into Keith’s hair, too, pulls his head back farther--

     There’s an  _ explosion _ of pain up his cheek and temple, splitting across his forehead, and everything goes dark. 

  
  


     Keith feels strange when he wakes up. It’s good. It’s familiar, and he leans into the comfort of familiarity that relaxes his body and mind. Things are  _ good. _

__ There’s that tell-tale pinch in his arm. Everything will be fine. Things are great. He misses the feeling of loving everything in the world whenever Ben makes him--

     No,  _ wait. _

_      No. _

__ He opens his eyes too fast, the too-bright lights above him making his head spin. His body goes rigid, even though the drugs in his system are telling him to  _ relax -- you’re fine, everything is fine. Just let it happen. _

     There’s a needle in his arm still and he can’t remember who put it there, can’t remember why he did this -- can’t understand how he’s managed to blow this, after almost a year of being  _ clean _ and safe from…

_ No _

     The lights dim. 

     “Keith?” Someone says, nearby, and when he tries to move his head there’s lightning bolts of agony, and, huh that’s not right. The pain is supposed to disappear. He reaches for the needle, fully intending to remove it, because he doesn’t want this and he’s  _ never _ wanted this. 

     “Don’t!” The  _ someone _ in the room with him grabs his hand to stop him. He doesn’t  _ know _ them and he doesn’t  _ trust _ them, so he snarls and yanks his hand back, only to have his whole arm grabbed and pinned. 

     “Get off!” he shrieks, kicking and writhing even as his whole skull throbs, and just like that he remembers. The kids in the parking lot -- his classmates -- calling him names, and the way the rough ground had felt against his face. The blows to his head. 

_ Hospital. _

     He freezes. Strains his eyes to look around, tries not to move his head more than necessary. Fluorescent lights, pale blue walls, floral curtain to his left. Lavender scrubs to his right, then curly red hair and soft eyes; a nurse who releases her grip on his arm and says, “Keith, you’re alright. You’re at the Abrazo medical center. The needle is there to help you-- it’s just painkillers.”

_  “I’m just trying to fucking help you, Keith. Could you be a little more grateful?”  _

     He jerks away from her altogether and bares his teeth. “I don’t want  _ help.” _ Before she can stop him this time, the needle is gone and a trickle of blood drips onto the pristine sheets. “I want to go--”

     Where?

_ Home? _

     Yeah, right.

 

*

 

     Keith has spent his whole life wishing so hard for  _ parents _ that he forgot to think about all the other things that come with a family.

     Like grandparents. He’s never had those. Never really thought twice about  _ those. _ Now he wonders why the hell he didn’t realize he was missing out, as Margaret -- or Peggy, as she insists he call her -- ushers him into the living room with an envelope clutched in her hand and a great big smile on her face.

     The smile is contagious. Keith knows what the letter is, and he hadn’t been even remotely hopeful about the contents until now, when Peggy is lit up like a Christmas tree, so bright it’s like her old age melts away. 

     “Oh, this is just so exciting. I miss these days. Aren’t you excited?”

     Keith  _ wasn’t, _ until a few minutes ago when she found that letter from the Galaxy Garrison in the mailbox. “I mean, yeah.”

     “And no matter what it says, aren’t you so proud of yourself for taking that leap?”

     He hadn’t really thought of it that way, but-- 

     She presses the envelope into his hands and sits back, crossing her fingers. If he hesitates, he knows he’ll chicken out, so he tears it open as fast as he can, forgetting to breathe, and stares at the paper inside for a few long moments without really  _ processing _ anything.

     “Well?” Peggy prompts, softly.

     He blinks. Reads the first line again. Tries to figure out what it  _ means. _ Then everything grinds to a halt and a big grin breaks out on his face before he can stop himself. “I got in.”

     “You did?” Peggy doesn’t  _ leap _ to her feet, necessarily, but she does get out of her seat faster than she usually moves and drags him into a hug that kind of stinks like mothballs. “Oh, isn’t that so exciting!”

     “I got in,” Keith says again, disbelievingly, checking the letter once again to make sure he isn’t imagining things.

 

     Four days. He’s been living with Peggy (and Snickers, her toy poodle) for four days and she’s already managed to worm her way into his heart, even if he huddles down in embarrassment when she intercepts yet another member of the wait staff to tell them all about Keith’s accomplishment and how  _ proud _ she is that he’s been accepted into the _ Galaxy Garrison,  _ of all places! Rouge crawls up his cheeks and he hides behind his hand as the very confused, pimply teenager nods and congratulates him. 

     “Ice cream for dessert, obviously, unless there’s something else you have in mind.”

     Keith doesn’t so much as glance at the dessert menu, remembering Danielle’s “sundae Sundays” jokes and the things he  _ could _ have had, if only he’d been a little less afraid. He nods. 

 

     “I...got a scholarship?”

     Sure, he’d  _ applied, _ but he didn’t think he came anywhere close to qualifying for something like that. Peggy peers up from the book on her lap and waves him over. He passes her the paper obligingly.

     She whistles. “Wow. That should cover your tuition and then some,” she says. “You must boast a pretty impressive resume, there.”

     “I didn’t really-- I don’t really-- do you think it was a mistake?” he blurts.

     She shakes her head immediately. “No, no. Not at all. They don’t do these things accidentally. If you could prove you were Garrison material, you could prove you were worthy of a little help getting there, right?”

     Keith nods mutely.

 

     Keith starts classes at the Garrison in September. Shiro is there with him from day one, peeking into his classrooms and showing up at his dorm and dragging him off the fucking kid who keeps taunting him once he reaches his breaking point. He gets the same treatment from Shiro that he does from Peggy, who calls once a week just to talk,  _ just to see how things are going. _ Shiro tells him every day that he’s proud. That he believes in him.

     That he’s stronger than he thinks.

     Even while he holds an ice pack over his swollen eye and scoffs at him, Shiro treats him like a human being worthy of respect, and it makes Keith’s heart swell with what he has to assume is love.

     Shiro is his brother, no matter what things look like on paper. He’s always been his brother, even when they were apart for  _ years. _ And they’ll always find each other again, because that’s what brothers  _ do. _

     Keith turns sixteen in October. Shiro and his boyfriend Adam turn up at Keith’s dorm with a cake and hideous party hats and Keith laughs so hard he cries. Or maybe he cries and tries to hide it under the laughter. 

     He blows out the candles and hugs Shiro for longer than necessary. Shiro hugs him back. 

     “I’m so proud of you,” he says. “My little brother, all grown up. You can legally drive my car soon instead of stealing it all the time.”

     And Keith really  _ does _ laugh at that.

     Peggy passes away in November. 

     Shiro drives him to the funeral. It’s a long drive, and it’s quiet most of the way. 

     He smooths Keith’s overgrown hair back into place when they step out of the car and gives him a small, solemn smile. “I know. I’m sorry,” he says, drawing him into an embrace so that Keith doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t crying. 

 

*

 

     They’ve been floating around in this fucking  _ abyss _ thing for  _ months. _

_      Years? _

     Keith lost track after a while. Krolia promises every day that they’re almost there, but how does she  _ know? _ Everything is the same. Dark and deadly. 

_ Don’t do that, Keith. You might die. _

_      Don’t go over there, Keith. That could kill you. _

     Having a mom is going just about how he should have expected it to. She keeps trying to protect him and he keeps trying to be reckless and they just keep going around in circles like that.

     He lies awake at night, beside the massive, snoring body of a weird fucking dog they picked up on the way, and thinks,  _ Holy shit, she’s my  _ **_mom._ **

More than discovering a sentient, flying lion robot, or being transported to a different planet, or meeting aliens, or being thrust into an intergalactic war,  _ that _ shatters his whole worldview.

     He’s never had a mom. He glances over to where she tends the fire they built and he knows she can’t be lying. She looks just like him. More purple, maybe, but  _ just like him. _

_ Strong genetics. _

     But he’s never had a mom. He wasn’t supposed to. He’s an orphan. He’s all alone in the world. In the universe.

     And then suddenly he isn’t. 

     It’s worse, somehow, that she’s just  _ existed _ this whole time, unaware of what he was going through back on Earth, and now she’s just…  _ here. _ Like none of it ever happened. Like her absence didn’t make things a million times harder than they could’ve been.

     She’s here, and she gets to watch it all replayed in horrible little vignettes, courtesy of the quantum abyss, like she didn’t miss out on it all. She was never there to comfort him, after. Never there for support. 

     And if she  _ had _ been, none of this would have happened to him. He’d be a normal teenager, growing up in a normal family (alien heritage notwithstanding). He wouldn’t have all these scars to carry with him for the rest of his life. 

     He wonders if he could’ve been happy. Even if she had just taken him with her to space when he was a baby. It would have been better than  _ all of that, _ right?

     He feels guilty for the pit of resentment that burns in his chest at the thought.

     She was only doing what she thought was best. She couldn’t have predicted Kenneth Kogane’s untimely death, or Keith’s experiences in the foster system. Her focus had been on keeping him uninvolved in a war, where he would’ve been in more danger. 

     Funny, that he ended up involved anyway.

     Fate has her way.

     And then the  _ guilt _ he feels -- for what happened, for ever thinking to resent her, for not taking the time to get to truly know her as his mother -- the day she cries his name through a flash of blinding light, hands dragging him away from the edge. When he comes to, he’s all alone again.

  
  


* * *

 

     He removes the headset slowly, not wholly aware of his body yet and unable to figure out how to move for a few seconds. 

     It’s odd to find himself sitting cross-legged on his own bed. He’s still stuck in the dream-like daze of reliving his own memories, and he thinks he’s experiencing an adrenaline high from cycling through it all so rapidly. 

     “Keith?” Lance says it so softly he might have imagined it. It takes him a second to look up, still trying to get his bearings, to find Lance removing his own headset.

     Keith doesn’t know what to make of his expression -- the set of his jaw, the draw of his brow. The way he stares with an intensity Keith still isn’t accustomed to. 

     “Keith, I’m--”

     He can’t do this. It’s mere hours until he needs to be ready for his Blade mission on Kallinda E-17, but he forces the stiffness out of his limbs to scramble out of the bed. “Listen, I have to--” Ugh, talking is weird. He’s trapped in his own headspace still. “The Blades need me for a recon thing.”

     “What-- no, Keith?” Lance lunges after him but he stops just short of grabbing his arm.  _ “No.” _

     He takes a couple steps back from the bed. “I promised I’d help organize recon for them in that system. It’s just a few hours and then I’ll be back for a while, so don’t--” His breath catches. Somehow leaving right now is as terrifying as the  _ reason _ he needs to leave.

     He may have organized this as an out for this exact situation but it’s like ice in his veins when he thinks of leaving Kah-Yih here alone. Leaving Lance is just as scary.  _ Why? _

     “Please tell me you didn’t offer your time on a Blade of Marmora mission just so you could  _ escape _ from me after you-- after you just-- after all of  _ that!” _

     It’s Lance’s voice breaking, and the lingering confusion of emerging from his own memories, and the  _ adrenaline _ and the need to escape and not  _ wanting _ to escape that makes him feel like he’s hurtling through open space by himself. His next step falters. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps. He’s trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m  _ so _ sorry. I don’t know  _ why…” _ He moves closer to the door, gripping the frame for balance, determined to look anywhere but at Lance. “You didn’t need to see that.”

_ Yes, he did. _

_      Because Keith couldn’t justify abandoning someone so perfect over his own faults and fears. _

__ “I did.” Lance is in front of him. Uncertain fingers brush over his and Keith latches on like he’s drowning. “I did, because you needed me to understand. Because I needed that, too.”

     “But it’s… I’m so sorry. That was too much.” When Lance pulls him into what is possibly the most  _ tentative _ hug he’s ever experienced, he collapses into it. “I don’t want you to hate me.” The tears are sudden, but not unexpected. 

     “I can’t hate you. I used to try, remember?” Lance squeezes him tighter. “I’m glad you showed me. I don’t want you to regret it. I  _ also _ don’t want you taking off on any kind of mission right at this exact, precise moment, because we haven’t slept or eaten and you still have  _ blood _ on you. Okay?”

     Keith nods. He can feel the moisture of Lance’s tears in his hair. The warm hand rubbing confidently up and down his back. The careful, almost undetectable swaying. He struggles for a long while with what he wants to say. Not only because he’s still halfway to sobbing, but because the silence is such a fearsome thing to destroy. 

     He breathes in deep, counts to five, and exhales slowly. His heart is still pounding against his ribs. His hands slide farther up Lance’s back and he clings as tight as he can to his jacket. 

     “I love you.”

* * *

 


End file.
